After the Seine
by Emari-chan
Summary: AU in which Valjean saves Javert from committing suicide. As their relationship changes, the men find that their feelings go beyond friendship. Trouble starts when some old villains come up with a new, very dangerous ploy to make money at Javert's expense. "Valvert" slash, violence, all that good stuff. Previously published on Wattpad. R&R, please!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first fanfiction that I actually got very far in to. However, along the way, I learned a few important things. One: I'm terrible at writing smut. Two: I'm only a little better at writing really dark things than I am at writing smut. Therefore, as you read this, please leave me advice on what to go back and change. Since this is a fanfiction website, it should stand to reason that I do not own these characters. However, allow me to reaffirm that Victor Hugo is not, in fact, a 21st century fangirl with computer access. I also did not write the musical. I'm throwing that in there since most of the dialogue in this first chapter is musical-oriented, rather than from the book. Ah well, c'est la vie. As it is, enjoy!

* * *

"Give me the spy, Javert. Let me take care of him." Valjean breathed to Enjolras, seeking to avoid the attention of the other students. Enjolras studied the man hard. Valjean's dark curls were streaked with grime, the same as everyone who had stood the day on the barricade. He had a pleasant face, and thus far had tended only to the wounded, refusing to lift a gun against any man, government soldier or otherwise. And yet, something about the set of his face suggested that Jean Valjean wasn't just putting on airs - Enjolras correctly surmised that the man and this Javert had some point of high contention between them. The spy had to go, certainly, and he couldn't think of a good reason to let anyone else do the job; besides, he _had_ promised this Valjean a reward for driving off the snipers. Enjolras shrugged.

"Do what you have to do - this man belongs to you." Enjolras handed Valjean a pistol and turned back to the barricade.

Javert was seemingly asleep, and yet opened his eyes slowly when Valjean approached. The Inspector chuckled quietly to himself.

"That is appropriate," he murmured, and said no more.

Hours earlier, when Gavroche had revealed Javert's identity to the students, Enjolras had had him bound to a pillar in the tavern. Valjean now cut these cords with a small pocketknife, but left Javert's hands tied behind his back.

With Valjean motioning towards the rear of the tavern, Javert allowed himself to be compelled at gunpoint to walk out the back door. The men found themselves in a small, dingy yard, surrounded by a high stone wall. A narrow stair was cut into the stone, climbing up to the wall's top. Valjean indicated that Javert should continue up these stairs, and the Inspector did so with scarcely a sign of hesitation; his back was straight, and he walked proudly, a martyr going to an ignominious end.

At the top of the stair, the wall flattened out, so that several men could have stood abreast along it. A thin railing ran along the edge that looked down upon Paris. Javert turned and stared down his captor coolly.

"We meet again," Valjean said, calmly returning Javert's gaze.

"You've hungered for this all your life." Javert knew that it could not be otherwise - 19 years a tortured slave in the galleys, Valjean had more reason to hate him than indeed most of Paris. "Take your revenge. How right you should kill with a knife." For Valjean had not sheathed his pocket knife. It still glinted in the cold starlight.

Valjean raised the knife to Javert's neck, applying just enough pressure to see the would-be spy wince. Even Javert found it difficult to remain unaffected at the thought of the coming inevitability. Then Valjean dropped his hand and cut through the cord still holding Javert's hands bound.

"You talk too much," Valjean smirked ever so slightly in the gloom. "Your life is safe in my hands."

Javert was never someone easily startled, but this was a verbal punch to the gut. A convict - let him, Javert, go free? When Valjean could have killed him then and there, with no one to know but perhaps that traitor Enjolras?

"I don't... understand," the Inspector croaked.

"Clear out of here," came the curt reply.

"Valjean, take care - I'm warning you." A thought began to surface in Javert's mind, something that he could, perhaps, rationalize. Valjean hadn't changed. He was just as treacherous as he ever was. "Once a thief, forever a thief. What you want, you always steal." The idea coalesced into something tangible, and he smiled grimly. "You would trade your life for mine? Yes Valjean - you want a deal!" The Inspector drew himself to his full height; he dwarfed Valjean easily, and a fierce light shone in his eyes.

"Shoot me now for all I care! If you let me go, beware - you'll still answer to Javert!" His voice echoed across the wall, dying in the courtyard below. Eyes shut, he crossed his arms, waiting for the bullet that wouldn't come. A long minute later, Javert opened his eyes. Valjean was shaking his head sadly, and Javert felt his throat constrict.

"You are wrong," Valjean said, three small words that shook the foundation of Javert's world. "And always have been wrong," he continued. "I'm a man, no worse than any man. You are free, and there are no conditions. There's nothing that I blame you for. You've done your duty, and nothing more."

Javert clung to one last objection, and opened his mouth to speak, but Valjean beat him to it.

"If I come out of this alive, you'll find me at Number 55, Rue Plumet. No doubt our paths will cross again."

"Number 55, Rue Plumet," Javert repeated to himself.

"Go."

Dropping his dark eyes to the sidewalk, Javert pivoted and strode quickly down the wall to another stair at the other end.

Valjean fired the pistol in the air; the sound rolled like thunder to the silent barricade beyond the tavern. Enjolras heard it, and smiled. Valjean turned, and slipped into the darkness. Meanwhile, Javert made his way to the Commissaire to make his report.


	2. Chapter 2

The sewers were dark, and the stench was nearly unbearable. Valjean had spent the last three hours struggling through sludge comprised of Heaven-only-knows-what, carrying Marius' body over his shoulders. Blood was dripping down the side of his face, but the boy's shallow breathing told Valjean he was still alive, so it was not yet all in vain. The image of the barricade still burned in Valjean's head - fifty-some students, practically children, dead. He had to save Marius, at least, if for no reason other than that his beloved Cosette would be utterly crushed if he died.

A breath of fresh air wafted out of a side passage, scarcely noticeable, but to Valjean, the wind's whisper was the voice of God. Turning, he stumbled down the passage, dragging Marius with him as quickly as he could go. A grate barred the end of the tunnel. Beyond it, a walkway edged along the side of the River Seine, black in the deep night. A single street lamp, far above, illuminated the exit.

Tugging on the sewer door, however, Valjean found it was shut tight.  
"Locked," he breathed. "Locked. And this one won't last much longer..." In the last hour, Marius' breath had started coming more and more raggedly. He needed a doctor's care, and quickly. Grasping the iron bars tightly, the ex-convict strained his muscles, pulling. Slowly, with the quietest of creaks, the metal lock bent. At last, it gave. The sewer grate swung inwards on its hinges, and Valjean, with a final effort, hauled Marius out onto the pavement. The older man leaned back onto the wall catching his breath when a shadow fell over him. A sudden premonition struck Valjean, and he laughed silently to himself. Fighting, danger, blood, death, miles of Parisian sewers, and now this? Raising his eyes ever so slightly, Valjean confirmed what he had guessed.

"Hello, Javert."

"Valjean. I thought I might find you here."

Valjean climbed to his feet, looking the Inspector in the eye. Short in stature, Valjean only came up to Javert's chest, and yet something in his countenance commanded even Javert's most grudging respect. A change had come over Javert - in the last few hours, he had gone from serene calm to looking utterly haunted. Though his stance was as aloof as ever, the stone wall in his eyes had shattered. Valjean, though, tired as he was, did not perceive this.

"This man has done no wrong. He needs help." Valjean was not expecting Javert's cooperation. Indeed, he anticipated quite an argument. So he was somewhat nonplussed when, after a moment's calculating silence, Javert said

"I have a carriage waiting on the street above. Where does the boy live?"

Pulling out Marius's wallet, Jean Valjean showed the Inspector a slip of paper he had discovered earlier:_ If found dead, return Marius Pontmercy's body to Monsieur Gillenormand, Rue des Filles du Calvaire, No. 6._

"Take him to the carriage."

Valjean gently lay Marius down on the carriage's black leather cushion and sat near to him. Javert took a seat in the front next to the driver. He repeated the address from Marius' pocketbook, and shortly thereafter the reins flicked and the carriage jolted forward. When at long last the vehicle reached Monsieur Gillenormand's estate, Javert rapped smartly on the door. A footman glanced briefly at the Inspector and Valjean; then his eyes fell in Marius, Monsieur Gillenormand's grandson, and he immediately understood. Calling more servants from out of the house, the footman quickly had a doctor brought thither and got the injured young man inside. The door closed, and Javert and Valjean stood alone on the street. Slowly, Javert advanced a pace, eyeing Valjean as a tiger might look at its prey.

Jean Valjean took note of this and exhaled slightly. He had resigned himself to as much when he released the Inspector at the barricade hours before. A sudden thought struck him, though, and before Javert could arrest him, he opened his mouth to speak.

"I would ask one thing more of you before we go."

Javert scowled, as he always did when someone considered him capable of making exceptions, but strangely, he did not say no.

"I need to set things in order for my daughter, Cosette, so that she will be well cared-for when I am gone."

Javert gave an almost imperceptible nod and fell back into the carriage seat, Valjean following suit close behind.

"Number 55, Rue Plumet," the Inspector directed, having committed Valjean's address to memory. The Rue Plumet was not especially far from the estate of Marius' grandfather, but it seemed like hours to Javert. At every police outpost they passed, part of him longed to halt the vehicle and arrest Valjean then and there. And yet, he did not, and after they passed each building by, Javert felt his resolve lessening.

The Rue Plumet was a quiet street of quiet people; that is why Jean Valjean was so attached to it. Number 55 sat in the middle of an extensive garden, overgrown but beautiful in its wildness. When the carriage drew to a halt, Valjean stepped out and opened the gate. He turned, waiting for Javert to follow. But although Javert had likewise exited the carriage, he did not enter the garden with Valjean.

"You go up. I'll wait here," Javert's voice was the same as ever, but this was so out of character that Valjean did a double take. Still, he reasoned to himself, likely as not, Javert knew there was no way for Valjean to escape the house. It had been a long night, and if the Inspector didn't want to shadow Valjean for ten minutes, he could understand it. Thus, Valjean entered the house alone, and ascended the stairs to his room, where he wrote a brief note to Cosette explaining that as she was so happy with Marius, he would be leaving so as not to intrude upon their blessed union. He then took several hundred francs from a savings box and set them on the table with the letter. A second note he wrote, instructing that several thousand francs more were to be withdrawn from his account for Cosette's use.

Just before going back downstairs, Valjean looked out his bedroom window, wanting to see his peaceful street once more as a free man. As he scanned the road, however, he got quite another shock: though the carriage still waited by the gate, the sidewalk was empty.

Javert had gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Javert, for his part, had never been in such a state of confusion. Telling the carriage driver to wait, Javert walked down the lane, turned left, and kept going. He hardly had any idea where he was headed, but he had to get away from that place, from Valjean. Hissing slightly through his teeth, hands stuffed in his pockets, anyone who had ever known the Inspector would have been stunned: an unshakably confident man was now the picture of uncertainty. If he had known how often he had caused Valjean to pace his rooms in much the same manner, perhaps he would have appreciated the irony. As it was, other thoughts about Valjean were now far more all-consuming.

As long as he could remember, Javert had lived the letter of the Law, seeking above all else to avenge society of his deplorable parents - a mother in jail for prostitution, a father nowhere to be found, damn bastard as he was. Javert had jailed hundreds for lesser crimes - but is there a lesser crime? All illegal actions make a mockery of the Law, of order and justice. Valjean stole naught but a small loaf of bread, but to Javert, that upset, that creation of Chaos, was an insult to everything he had ever believed in. Everything except - With a new, condemning thought, Javert found himself torn between two extremes. He had never before considered that the Law might yet fall short of some other, greater Law: the Law of The Lord. And yet, so it seemed to be: justice on one hand, righteousness on the other. No longer were the two compatible.

There is a place in Paris where the River Seine turns into rapids, with such a strong undertow that even the strongest swimmers perish if they are fool enough to take it on. A bridge, wide and cobble-stoned, spans the river there. It is edged on both sides by an elegant rail, sculpted from some heavy grey stone. Unconsciously, Javert had made his way to this bridge. If nothing else, it was a good place to stand and think, if one had a penchant for thinking lonely thoughts in isolation; the occasional cart rolling by in the darkness did little to intrude on one's brooding, and it was now the thickest part of the night, that dark hour between 3:00 and the grey dawn, so there were no walking passerby to disturb him.

Leaning ever so slightly on the rail, Javert peered over the edge of the bridge, staring at the frothing Seine without seeing it. Long had Valjean's merciful nature seemed like nothing but an act, an act to fool the good, hardworking peasants of France, concealing a blacker nature within. Now though, the Inspector could not reconcile that idea with the image of Valjean letting him go free - he had had a knife to his throat, pulse burning just below it; it would only have taken the slightest bit more pressure and - Javert buried his head in his hands. Why? Why did Valjean have to let him go? He couldn't arrest him now without betraying that debt, and he couldn't let Valjean go free without violating the Law, the Law that had been Javert's every waking breath for all his life. Perhaps this devil of a man was some avenging angel of God, sent for Javert's personal torment. The little kindnesses of Valjean - the whole business with Fantine and Cosette, Fauchelevent stuck under his cart, the constant donations to the poor - no longer did they appear insincere. Javert had been wrong - men could change.

Some men, but not him. The full realization of Valjean's innocence did nothing to still the inner turmoil he was facing; indeed, the conflict had reached a boiling point. Mercy or Justice? God or the Law? Without even realizing it, the Inspector removed his hat and set it next to him on the rail.

"Death would be preferable to betrayal," he murmured. The Law prohibited letting the old convict walk away free, but God's hand lay heavy on Javert's stone heart and prevented him from turning Valjean in. To do either would be to betray the other.

"Death would be preferable," he said again, and the idea seized him like fire: a way out, a way to do neither. Better to burn in Hell alone than to drag Valjean down with him. Life was already Hell enough.

Climbing onto the rail would have broken the resolve of many men, but not for Javert. The stone, slick with dew, was slippery, and a sour wind blew down the river, nudging him forward. The black, oily water foamed around a few jagged rocks and sucked down the sewage of Paris.

"Better to burn."

With these three final words, the proud, broken Inspector of France jumped.

* * *

Valjean rushed out to the gate, not sure whether to panic or to rejoice. If Javert had simply decided to leave him in peace, this was a cause for celebration. The Inspector had not been acting himself for some time, however, and Valjean had a strong sense of foreboding as he tried to guess where the man might have gone.

"Monsieur!" Valjean grabbed the sleeve of the carriage-driver. "Monsieur, where did Javert, the Inspector, go?"

Shaking his head, the driver replied "Damned if I know; one minute he's standing here, the next he's walking down off that-a-ways. He just told me to wait here."

Valjean stared down the length of the street. The police officer was nowhere to be seen.

"Did he turn left or right?" Valjean asked.

"Left, I think. Why do you care so much? Most folk would be more than happy if that fellow walked away from their place; spooky-like, he is."

Valjean glared at the pavement, searching for answers that weren't there. Long ago, he had turned himself in to save an innocent man, Champmathieu, from being condemned to slave labor. The idea of allowing him to take his place in torment had been too much to bear. Now Javert could be in trouble himself, and it was clearly Jean Valjean's fault. If something happened to the Inspector because of Valjean's well-meaning kindness, the older man didn't know how he could live with himself. He turned back to the driver.

"Monsieur, I'll give you a gold Louis if you'll drive me to find him."

The driver considered this. "He sure didn't seem much in the mood ter be followed, if you'll take my meaning..."

"Let me worry about that. I'll give you a Louis up front, and a second when we've found him."

This struck a chord with the poor man's greed.

"A'right, suit yerself." Valjean tossed him a large gold coin and climbed up next to him. The horses clipped down the Rue Plumet and turned left. This street too was empty.

"You'll have a job to find him, you know. He could'a gone down any o' these streets, or into one o' the houses."

Valjean said nothing - what point was there in confirming the obvious? He looked hard down all the alleys and side streets they passed by, but saw no one at all. Even the homeless and vagrant had been well-cleared out by the police.

When the carriage reached the end of the avenue, a cart pulled by a single horse appeared out of the gloom.

"Monsieur!" Valjean called to the cart's driver, a slumped, grey haired fellow. When Valjean called out a second time, he turned slightly.

"And what does one of th' bourgeois want with little old me at this time of night?" He asked, squinting at Valjean as best he could.

"Have you seen a tall, dark haired fellow at all this evening? He had a black hat and long jacket on," Valjean asked, hoping that perhaps in the empty street Javert had stood out in this man's memory. Luck was with him that night - this was the very same cart driver who had driven over the bridge just as Javert arrived. The driver said as much, after a moment's pause deep in thought.

Heart pounding, Jean Valjean questioned the man once more. "Which bridge?"

The old cart driver gestured vaguely behind him. "Oh, you know it, Monsieur. It's that one over the Seine just after the water mill. Quiet sorta place, and pretty in the summer time."

"To the bridge, quickly," Valjean instructed his carriage's driver. "Thank you Monsieur!" he called to the cart man as the carriage leaped down the brick road. Houses blurred as the carriage horses raced, but to Jean Valjean it seemed they were going much too slow. Every second that passed by, Javert might decide to do something foolish. Exactly what he might do, Valjean shuddered to think.

Then, flying around a corner, the bridge loomed suddenly ahead. To the right, the street dropped off, falling many feet to the Seine, rushing swiftly below. A dark figure stood illuminated by a solitary street light. As Valjean stared in horror, approaching fast but unable to do anything but watch, Javert took off his hat and climbed onto the railing of the bridge. Valjean shouted something inexplicable, but the wind tore the words away, and Javert, never seeing the approach of the black carriage, jumped into darkness.

Motioning for the driver to stop, Valjean sprang from the cart with an almighty leap and searched the foaming river desperately, looking for any sign at all that the Inspector might yet be alive. He saw nothing.

Feeling no hope, but also unable to do otherwise, Jean Valjean scrambled over the edge of the street and let himself drop a good ten feet onto a narrow causeway next to the bank of the Seine. Still he could see nothing. Cursing his timing and praying silently to God, Valjean plunged into the river. He knew the stories, had read the reports, of young men out fishing who fell into the river there and drowned - the current was said to be a death sentence. Nevertheless, if Javert died the weight of it would hang on Valjean's consciousness until the day he died himself, and perhaps even after that. He would save Javert, or drown in the attempt.

The base of the Seine was cloaked in mud - years of sewage had built up along the banks, and the river stank with human filth. Valjean's boots sank deeply into the muck; impatiently, he kicked them off and shrugged his heavy jacket into the water. Then the bottom dropped out unexpectedly, and Valjean found himself floundering in water deeper than he was tall. It took but a moment for him to get his bearings, but in that time, he found the current was dragging him inexorably to the center and bottom of the river. The man fought back, trying to escape the river's lusty draw, but then gave up and let the water pull him; if the undertow was taking him to the Seine's middle, than likely as not Javert, dead or alive, had been dragged to the same. A full minute had passed since Javert jumped.

Valjean suddenly felt a tug on his leg and he disappeared under the water - the full force of the current had hit him. Spluttering, he pulled himself back up and inhaled as deep a breath as his strong lungs could take. He then dived immediately down.

The first sensation he felt was pressure: the roiling waters were in torment under the surface, streaming around jagged rocks, twisting and pulling in all directions. Valjean felt his side slam into a submerged boulder, but between the adrenaline and the cold water, there was no pain, not yet. His hand touched something soft. Fabric? Kicking legs still strong from the galleys, Jean Valjean burst through the surface of the Seine and examined what he had found: A black trench coat, soaking wet and in tatters. It was, almost without question, Javert's. Valjean took another deep breath and made a second dive. Two minutes had elapsed - at four minutes, the brain, starved of oxygen, dies.

Valjean was a powerful swimmer, and the current was only too happy to help drag him to the bottom of the Seine. When his groping hands discovered that river bed, Valjean began feeling urgently for any trace of a body. He could see nothing, though his eyes were open. Wood, stones, something that felt like a beer bottle, but not a sign of the Inspector. Valjean was beginning to see things now: tiny popping lights that swam in front of his blind vision and faded; if he did not get another breath, he would pass out and drown, but if he swam up to the surface again, it would be too late to dive a third time.

Desperation gained a new hold on Valjean's mentality - he had sworn to save Javert or die trying. The latter was now looking more and more like an inevitability. Just as those hallucinatory fireworks were fading into true blackness, Valjean grabbed hold of what felt like a shoe. Endorphins coursed through his bloodstream and with a Herculean effort, he heaved at the body, not knowing if it was Javert, or some other poor drowned wretch, or if indeed he had laid hands on a shoe at all, and it was not some other kind of dead weight he was now dragging to the surface. He kicked hard off the spongy bottom. He could see the distant light of a lamp piercing the black water. Jean Valjean's head broke the surface, with him coming the burden from the river bottom, and both dropped heavily on the causeway, Valjean's lower half still submerged in the water. Then his eyes shut, and he knew no more.

* * *

As far as Valjean could tell, he'd only been out for a couple of minutes. The sky was still dark, and his hair was yet dripping with putrid water. Beside him was the body - it clearly was a person - lying face-down on the pavement. Valjean heaved himself all the way onto dry land and gingerly turned over the figure.

Javert's face was grey and lifeless. He was, of course, soaked through, and even in the dim light Valjean could see cuts and bruises all down his face and arms, where he'd been pummeled by water and rock. His leg, the right, stuck out at an unnatural angle, and he didn't appear to be breathing. Sliding a trembling hand down the Inspector's vest, Valjean waited with bated breath for even the slightest sign of life. A long moment, an age in which it seemed entire species could have evolved, passed, and then the faintest heartbeat shivered beneath Valjean's fingers. Valjean exhaled; Javert was alive then, just barely. Working more quickly now, shaking off the lethargy induced by the cold water, Jean Valjean tipped Javert's head back, opening his mouth ever so slightly, and compressed his chest. A glass' worth of river water came pouring out of the Inspector's mouth, onto the ground. It seemed then that the body gave a tremendous inhalation; though still unconscious, Javert was breathing again.

Jean Valjean grabbed the Inspector's hand and drew his arm around his shoulders. Staggering slightly under the weight, he called the carriage driver to the edge of the street and together they lifted Javert off the causeway and into the vehicle. Valjean climbed up himself, and instructed the young man to take them back to the Rue Plumet, promising him two gold Louis for his efforts. Had anyone stood watching on the street that night, they should have seen a very pensive man in a carriage, fading into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

The first sensation that came back to him was one of being warm. Wherever he was, he was comfortable. In trying to open his eyes, though, he encountered a problem - though one eye was perfectly capable of opening, the other was somehow muffled. The second sensation was one of light. Looking up at a wooden ceiling, shadow and orange brightness rippled across it. _Fire_, he thought. _I'm somewhere with fire._ Then he wondered, _Is this Hell?_ Suicide was a sin, taking life before God claimed it, but while he distinctly remembered jumping, he didn't feel especially dead, and although he was beginning to notice a feeling of pain, lying peacefully on something soft wasn't what the preacher had ever described in Sunday mass when he talked of eternal damnation.

Javert opened his eyes completely, and discovered that his left was bound with a white bandage; he shut that eye hurriedly again, lest he make himself nauseous. With his right, he could see that he was stretched out on a low green couch, and was wrapped tightly in a grey woolen blanket. From what he could tell, the walls and floor were of the same smooth wood as the ceiling. Javert was a well-trained spy; all this he took in in a matter of seconds. He made to shift ever so slightly, so as to get a better view of the room, when he discovered another problem: the pain he had experienced upon waking now burned through his lower half, and he bit down hard to avoid crying out. Grimacing, Javert recognized the sensation. Either he was in Hell after all, or he'd broken a leg. Maybe both.

Steeling himself for another burst of agony, Javert succeeded the second time in turning halfway onto his side almost noiselessly. He focused hard on this front part of the room to drown out his discomfort. Before him was a fireplace, the source of the room's light. It was brick, with a bulky oak mantle on which was set at either end a silver candlestick. These were unlighted. To the side of the couch was a well-worn armchair; it looked as though it might once have been burgundy. And there, bending over the fire, was a startlingly familiar figure - Jean Valjean, tending to a cast iron pot heating on the hearth. _So, I_ am _in Hell_, he thought wryly.

Apparently, Javert had not been quite as silent as he had hoped - either that, or Valjean had exceptional hearing. For now he turned and saw that the Inspector was awake. He raised his eyebrows slightly and went back to what he was doing, the hallmark expression of one who is not sure what to make of something, but is passed the point of caring. Then he spoke.

"You shouldn't sit up yet - you'll hurt yourself."

To this Javert made no reply. Valjean continued.

"You're in Number 55 Rue Plumet - as I recall, you... _left_ before getting a tour of my humble home. I've had the doctor in to see to your leg. I'd have done it myself, but I'm not practiced at setting broken bones. He didn't understand the point - he was quite sure that even if you lived, you wouldn't wake up. Of course, he was just as stupid about Marius, and that young lad is now awake as well."

Javert still said nothing, just watching intently. Valjean ladled a mouthful of soup out of the pot and sampled it. Apparently satisfied, he put the lid back on and left it to simmer.

Still keeping his back to the Inspector, he added

"I haven't much left the house the last three days, only on little errands - to get food, call the doctor, that sort of thing. I suppose now that you're up I'll have to find him again, and I'd really like to buy some bread to go with dinner, but if you still intend to arrest me, allow me to assure you that I'm not disappearing anywhere."

At last Javert spoke. His throat was dry, and his voice was hoarse from disuse.

"Three days? Have I been unconscious that long?"

Valjean poured the Inspector a glass of water and helped him sit up enough to drink it. In so doing, Javert realized that he was more bandaged than he had first thought - linen cloth was wrapped in places around both arms, and around his middle as well. Aching muscles protested their use violently, but Javert forced himself to drink the water without so much as wincing. When he'd finished, Valjean took the cup.

"You were passed out when I found you, understandably. That was about 3:30 on Monday morning. Then you slept through Thursday, and about half of Friday; it is mid afternoon."

"So it is the 14th, then? I see... Who else knows that I'm here?"

"No one - only the doctor knows where you are, or has been told of your condition. I wasn't sure how much you would want it spread around that you - ah - well, took a bit of a fall."

Javert reclined, lapsing back into silence, and studying Valjean, if it were possible, with even more attentiveness than he had first shown. Three days, he said to himself. He had been utterly at Valjean's mercy for three days, and not only had Valjean ignored yet another opportunity to kill him, he had actually foiled Javert's ploy to kill _himself_, instead calling a doctor and making sure he was as comfortable as possible. Something like wonder fell across Javert's person - though he still could not fathom the motive for Valjean's kindness, it was apparently a genuine one. In the midst of this reverie, Javert noticed that he was not the only one injured. There was a bulge under Valjean's jacket that suggested his shoulder was bandaged. Puzzled, Javert asked him about it.

"This?" Valjean indicated the sore area. "I hit a rock when I dove in the Seine after you. Nothing serious, but the doctor thought I should wrap it, just in case."

Javert processed this as Valjean poured soup into two wooden bowls. One of these he handed to the Inspector. The other he set on the armchair.

"I am going to go call the doctor and get that bit of bread. I shan't be gone long." So saying, Valjean donned a hat and left, leaving Javert alone.

As soon as he was gone, Javert sat up completely. He set the grey blanket to the side and tried to fill in the picture of what had happened to him. His leg, the broken one, protested even small movements and absolutely forbid trying to stand - a pity, really, as Javert had wanted to poke around a bit while Valjean was out of the house - but so far as he could tell, his other leg was suffering from nothing but a bit of stiffness. Gingerly, he unwrapped part of the bandage on his arm. The skin was an angry red, puckered around a place where stitches were holding a nasty laceration together. Innumerable other tiny cuts crisscrossed their way across his skin, but that was nothing. The Inspector had dealt with worse. The linen was fresh, and he wondered briefly who had changed his bandages. Somehow, he didn't think it was the doctor.

The Inspector laughed mirthlessly to himself. Saved by the man who drove him to suicide - there was something ironically just in that, but at the moment, the Inspector was not overly interested in justice; he'd had enough of it for a little while. Besides, the soup was looking more and more tempting. If he had woken up in anyone else's house, perhaps he'd have been warier of accepting food - for thirty years, he had eaten nothing that he had not prepared himself. It was a personal paranoia. Valjean, however, could have done anything at all to him in the last three days, and it was unlikely that he'd try to poison the Inspector now.

The soup was good, and it was hot, a heavy beef broth seasoned with bay, carrots, and onion - simple, but heartening. Setting the empty bowl beside him, Javert leaned back and fell into a sleep easier than he'd known in years.

* * *

Valjean walked with long strides down the sidewalk. A fresh loaf of bread was tucked under his arm, and he was on his way to fetch the doctor. He paused at the corner, waiting for a group of carts to trundle on by. Just then, Valjean caught sight of Cosette hurrying towards him.

"Papa! I've missed your visits! How are you today?"

"Well, very well," he replied, smiling fondly at the girl he considered a daughter.

"And that gentleman you're taking care of - is he any better?"

Jean Valjean winced slightly. As it would happen, he hadn't been completely honest with Javert - one other person knew of Javert's convalescence in his house. He had been unable to hide that from Cosette when she paid him a visit, though she had no idea who he was.

"He is better; he finally woke up today. However," he said, drawing Cosette to the side, "he still is not well, and it would probably be best if you stay at Marius' estate for a few days."

Face suddenly serious, Cosette laid her hand on Valjean's and said "Actually, papa, that's what I wanted to talk to you about: Marius has asked me to move in with him and his grandfather, permanently. There is a room there where you could stay, too, if you would. It has the most beautiful view of the garden, and silk drapes, and a wonderful armchair where you could sit and relax, and -"

Valjean held up his hand to stop this small tirade, smiling. "Thank you, dear one, but I like the little place on Rue Plumet. Such grandeur as your Marius enjoys is not to my taste. But if you will have me, I will visit when I can."

"Of course, papa! Come anytime you like!" So saying, the vibrant young woman took her leave of her father and went off to run her other errands.

Valjean stared after her for a moment, then turned and went down the Rue du Hout to the physician's house. Number 34 had a tall stone facade, and was set in the middle of a long string of brick row houses. The man rapped smartly on the mahogany door with the iron knocker and waited. After a few minutes it opened and a tall, sallow man emerged. He was clearly distressed, immediately shooing Valjean off without hardly glancing at him.

"No, no, I'm telling you, there's nothing to be done. Once the spots have progressed that far, medicines are good for naught. I don't want to hear any more about -" Then he stopped, realizing that he was not addressing the visitor he had been expecting. "Monsieur Jean Valjean! My apologies."

Valjean simply inclined his head ever so slightly. "Trouble with another patient?"

"Quite," the physician replied, wiping sweat from his yellowed brow. "This young lad has a terrible case of measles, nothing to be done, of course, but his family seems to believe me a miracle worker."

Privately, Valjean doubted that the man was even capable of pulling off a bad card trick, let alone a miracle, but he said instead "The Inspector woke up earlier this afternoon, perhaps ten minutes ago. He had water and I left him with a bit of soup, but I thought you ought to take a look at him."

"Ah, you see - I told you he'd recover!" The doctor, of course, had said no such thing. "Let us go, at once. Perhaps then I will be spared any additional visitations."

The pair hurried down the winding streets, passing the bakery along with another clump of Parisian shops and cafes. They stopped at the corner, again waiting for the street to clear, when two other men walked up, also waiting. They wore long coats, one black and the other brown, and whispered to each other.

Valjean paid them no mind until he heard the one in brown breathe "And what of the Inspector? Javert has been missing for days now."

Now listening carefully, Valjean heard the other mutter, even more quietly "No idea. He made it out of the barricade - gave some kind of report to the Commissaire - but no one has seen him since. I wouldn't worry. He gets into tight spots all the time, but he always pulls through. Remember that time with the crazy guy and the dog fighting ring?"

The two chuckled and made their way across the street. Valjean and the doctor followed, turning right onto the Rue Coquille. This avenue had many side streets leading off of it, one of which was the Rue Plumet. Number 55 was as silent as ever.

Valjean entered, and found Javert asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Jean Valjean was slightly taken aback. Javert was sleeping deeply, still sitting up, with an empty bowl fallen onto the floor beside the couch and half the bandages on his upper arm unraveled. That was not what had Valjean's attention, however. In sleep, Javert looked so much younger; the worry lines and angry wrinkles usually creasing his face were smooth, and he almost looked happy. The fire had burned low, and the reddish light cast a warm glow on the police Inspector's haggard features. Valjean was loathe to wake him. He needed the sleep, obviously, and, though Valjean quickly buried the thought as soon as it surfaced, the sleeping Javert gave him a sense of peace of his own.

The doctor, however, had no such reservations. He shook Javert firmly on the shoulder, saying "Come now, I can't get you into a better cast if you're asleep." The Inspector, brought suddenly to waking and still lost in sleep-induced confusion, jumped to his feet. That woke him up. Biting hard on his hand to keep himself from cursing, Javert fell back onto the couch where he'd been sitting. His leg, nowhere near healed, felt like someone had twisted a red-hot carving knife in it.

"Oh dear, we can't have you standing up yet, you'll hurt yourself!" the physician blathered on, trying and failing to appear the pinnacle of professionalism. He started pulling bandages and plaster of Paris from his bag. "Do you know, I once had a patient who -"

"Jean Valjean," Javert said the name loudly, interrupting the doctor's fatuousness. Valjean, who had been facing the fire with apparent indifference, turned his head.

"Yes?"

"I will not be seen to by this idiot. He is an abominable disgrace to the medical profession."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Valjean's face.

"Very well. Doctor, I'm afraid we won't be requiring your services anymore."

The physician sputtered indignantly. Valjean led him to the side by the elbow and said quietly "I appreciate the work you've done for us the last couple of days, so I'll give you double what we agreed upon if you'll take your leave of us. The man needs rest and quiet, and apparently objects to your methods. I'll give you another twenty francs if you'll leave the plaster and bandages." The doctor allowed himself to be thus placated, and was perfectly happy to pocket Valjean's promised payment. With many a "good day" and "farewell", Valjean was able to usher him to the door, closing and locking it as soon as the doctor was outside.

"Thanks be to God that that's over with. I swear, I never could abide doctors." Valjean returned to where Javert was sitting in thoughtful silence, examining his hand, which was now bleeding where he'd bitten into it. "With your leave, I'll finish binding your leg up - it should be good to walk on in another couple of days, with crutches." Javert only nodded.

Jean Valjean got out a small dish and filled it with warm water. He mixed in the dry plaster left by the physician until he'd created a drippy white paste.  
"Your pant leg, if you please," he then added, indicating that the Inspector ought to roll up the garment. Javert did so, settling back on the seat with an odd expression. Carefully, Jean Valjean unwrapped the bandages already holding the bones in place, setting the spent fabric to the side. He then took strips of fresh linen, and dipping them into the paste, gently smoothed the wet cloth over the appendage.

He tried to ignore the feeling of hard muscle flexing beneath his fingers, as well as the fact that the knowledge of Javert's discomfort made him feel unusually protective.

"Valjean," Javert said suddenly. Jean Valjean looked up; he'd been applying the last couple of strips to the cast and wiped his plaster-covered hands on his pants.

"Yes, Inspector?"

Javert's brow creased as he argued internally with himself. Just as Valjean thought he wasn't going to reply, the Inspector said "You said earlier that 'if I still intended to arrest you, you weren't going anywhere'. I've made up my mind on that account - I don't think arresting you is an option anymore."

Nonplussed, Valjean said "If it's a question of legality, I'm sure there are a number of charges you could bring me up on: escaping the galleys, living under an assumed name, participating at the barricade..."

"No," Javert said slowly, "You misunderstand me. There is, granted, a number of offenses on which I could have you arrested. I've put dozens in jail for less. But..." he paused, considering how best to continue. "But I couldn't bring myself to arrest you before I jumped, and I certainly couldn't do so now."

Jean Valjean would have been less stunned if he'd been hit in the head with a brick. He'd never expected Javert of all people to forgive him for anything, under any circumstances.

"I... are you sure? But perhaps I'm yet taking advantage of your condition - you clearly aren't feeling well."

The Inspector laughed once, sardonically. "I've felt worse. Believe me, I am as shocked and dismayed by this as you are, but apparently, I have had a sort of revelation. I now owe you my life twice, and turning you in would be a pretty poor way to repay you that debt."

To this Valjean could think of no answer. Instead he said only "The plaster will hold your leg in place far better than the cloth alone would have. It will need a few hours to set; I would recommend sleeping here by the fire. If you feel so inclined, you may toss the bandage for your head; I'm sure it's playing havoc with your eyesight, and your cut there seems mostly healed."

Javert nodded, and Valjean took down a candlestick from the mantle, lighting it with a match. With candle in hand, he bid the Inspector a good night and ascended the stairs, feeling blissfully elated. He was free - completely free for the first time in his miserable life.

* * *

Saturday dawned cold and grey. A mistiness hung over everything, and in the cool darkness of his home, Valjean slept later than normally he did. When he opened his eyes, the bell tower was just calling out half-past eight o'clock. He trundled his way down the stairs, and found Javert also awake and sitting up.

"Good morning," Javert's tone was cordial enough, though it seemed that overnight he had recast the stone wall in his eyes, so much so that he looked as frigid as the weather felt.

"Good morning," Valjean parried, noticing the change but not remarking on it. "Are eggs alright for breakfast?"

"Where you'll get them, I can't imagine, as the milkman had already gone by, but if eggs are to be had, I will eat them," Javert said, apparently indifferent. Valjean watched, recognizing an act when he saw one. For all Javert's crafty words, something in the way he folded his arms suggested a vague curiosity.

Just then, there was a shy little tap on the door. Valjean opened it graciously, and a tiny brunette girl entered, dressed all in rags.

"Monsieur," her voice was almost as tiny as she was. "I've brought the Saturday eggs. Giry actually laid three this morning, if you'd care for the extra."

"Of course I'll take the third, unless there's another who you could sell to. I have company today, so a little extra is appreciable." Valjean was a kind, fatherly type of figure, and the little one had been smiling as she talked to him, but now noticing for the first time the man sitting on the couch, she shrunk back behind Valjean's legs.

"Shh, shh, don't be silly dear - he won't hurt you. Here, take your three francs," he put an arm about her and pressed the money into her palm.

"But Monsieur," she stammered, "it is three sous, not three francs."

"I know that, and you know that, but my guest does not! If he sees I pay three francs for your fine eggs, he will know that they are the best eggs in Paris." The little girl, decidedly happier looking, left, presumably to go and purchase some food of her own.

Javert, who had according to his nature been avidly watching this exchange, said "If you'd bought from the milkman, you should have paid less than that arm and a leg for three little eggs."

Valjean watched through the window as the girl disappeared into the street, already crowded with traffic. "And yet," he said pensively, "if I had bought from the milkman, that little child would be going hungry tonight. And perhaps for many nights hereafter."

"Doubtless though, it's stolen produce." Javert glared interrogatively at the silent eggs.

Valjean laughed at that. "Hardly. The Giry she mentioned is her chicken - rightfully bought, and fed better than the girl eats herself. I don't much hold with thievery myself, although I've always felt that compassion is a better solution to the problem than a jail cell." The look Javert gave Valjean could have cooked the eggs for him, but Valjean paid him no heed. Years living on his own, or with only Cosette for company, had made Jean Valjean a decent cook, and the two plates of eggs that he prepared were ready not long thereafter.

Javert ate in stony silence, not used to having jokes made at his expense, and not sure how to take Valjean's jibe. The eggs were good, better than the Inspector wanted to admit, and though he very determinedly tried to think about anything else, he found his mind kept returning to the previous night, when Valjean had put the cast on his leg. His gentleness was astounding - Javert hadn't felt even a small sting of pain, in spite of the bad fracture - and Valjean's rough hands on his skin had soothed his inflamed flesh.

Even briefly considering it made his ears burn, coupled with the smiles and little jokes... The fact of the matter was that no one had ever shown such tenderness to him before, and after scarcely surviving his recent revelation in philosophy, he didn't know what this revolution of spirit would do to him. Troubled, Javert carefully wiped his face of all betraying emotion, and Jean Valjean suspected nothing.

For his part, Valjean felt distinctly awkward. He never entertained, and little knew how to treat guests; he had even less idea what to do now that he was playing host to someone who until recently would have been thrilled to see him dead. If he left the house, it would be rude, and it's not like he had anywhere to go, anyway. Still, staying here, he felt obligated to make small talk or break out an old chessboard or something. This tacit quiet was becoming unnerving.

Javert, though, wasn't exactly the kind of person one could just offer a game of chess. Javert was different, cold and calculating, and somehow more vulnerable now than anyone Valjean had ever met.

Each mulling quietly over the last few days, the afternoon faded to evening, and it was hours before either of them spoke at all.


	6. Chapter 6

It was Sunday afternoon; Valjean was at mass, and had left Javert his copy of the Bible in the event that he felt like reading. Javert had in fact flipped through the text, but none of his favorite passages rang true anymore. Daniel 12:3, _And those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky above; and those who turn many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever_, had long been a great inspiration to him, a Biblical sign of Divine trust in the Law. Now though, it spoke more of Valjean than anything. Jean Valjean - only last night, he had offered him a game of chess, and much to his own surprise, Javert had agreed. He hadn't played chess since the Commissaire's bachelor party. He hated that the man could somehow agreeably force him to let his guard down; it was exhausting, having to be uncaring externally when inside he began to value Valjean's friend - or at least acquaintance - ship. He found, however, that he could not bring himself to act otherwise. To admit a desire for friendship would be to renounce the last bit of personality he could concretely define as his own.

Laying the Holy Book aside, Javert decided he no longer cared to remain the couch's captive. He sat up and gripped the side arm tightly, rolling all his weight onto his unhurt leg. That effort alone was almost beyond him, after not standing for five and a half days. For ten long minutes, Javert leaned heavily on the couch, regaining his breath and sense of balance. Then, warily, the Inspector let the slightest bit of pressure fall onto his bound leg. Though sore, he did not collapse as he had the day before. Thus it was that Javert found on Sunday, the day of rest, that he could stand.

The next challenge was to get a hold on the crutches that Valjean had had delivered the evening before. They were resting on the wall next to the door; after all, Jean Valjean had not expected Javert to be wanting them until Wednesday at the earliest. Valjean's home was sparsely furnished, as he had little love for luxury, and about ten feet of open floor stood between the door and the couch, without even a small table on which to lean.

Inspector Javert had once been in a situation where he'd had to walk on a broken leg, although granted, in that instance, his life had been in jeopardy, and he certainly hadn't been so well-tended by his captors. The experience still gave him the occasional nightmare, and he wasn't relishing the idea of the suffering he was likely about to inflict on himself. Nevertheless, at this point, the thought of admitting defeat and sitting back down became even more abhorrent.

Bracing himself, Javert released his hold on the couch and shuffled far too quickly towards the door, doing an undignified sort of hop as he tried to avoid putting any stress on the injured limb. That plan, of course, could only end badly, and the Inspector had only traversed about half the distance when he lost his balance and fell forward, just barely catching himself with his hands. There was a sickening sort of crunch from underneath him, and though he didn't appear to have hurt himself unduly, there could be no question that he'd cracked the cast. On a more positive note, Javert was tall enough that from where he lay on the floor, he could reach the pair of crutches. With these, he stood himself back up and examined the damage.

It was as he had feared - a jagged crack ran down the center of the cast, splintering off in a dozen tiny spiderwebs. There was nothing to be done now - the cast was cracked, it was his fault, and there was no helping it. Javert put the issue from his mind - he would deal with the consequences when Valjean returned. In the meantime, he wanted to look around this house of Valjean's. The first floor was all one room, but for a small closet and a side space that looked like the quarters of a servant long since departed. A large mirror hung next to the staircase, in front of which sat a rickety writing desk. Javert could not have known it, but it was at this very desk that Cosette had composed the love note to Marius that Jean Valjean intercepted.

It was the stairs that now drew the Inspector's eye. A long shadow lay over them, and the Inspector had a sudden vision of hidden bodies and untold secrets; this he brushed away - it was the ruminations of the suspicious Javert from before the bridge.

Stumping slowly up the staircase, the Inspector found himself in a dimly lit hall. On the left side, there were two doorways, and there was a third on the right. This led into a small powder room, apparently little-used. A thick layer of dust lay over the console. The first doorway on the left led to a bedroom, seemingly Cosette's. It was filled with toys and all the pretty things that a girl might like, but it was empty now, and sad. A writing tablet sat on the table near the bed. Cosette's last letter had bled through the paper onto the wood, staining it lightly so that only the trained eyes of a police officer - or a jealous father - could decipher it. _My beloved Marius_, it began. Javert read no more. In some matters, he still understood respect for privacy.

The final room of the house was Valjean's. Javert hesitated a moment before pushing open the heavy wooden door, wondering briefly if this was another place where privacy had merit. _Cowardice_, he thought. _Simple cowardice, that I should fear to enter the old man's chambers_. With that, he stepped through. The walls were stuccoed over and painted a sunny yellow. In terms of furniture, this room was no more elaborate than the rest of the dwelling: a simple wooden bed frame held a mattress, which was itself bare. Javert's thought flashed to the grey blanket he had been using, and he wondered if in fact Valjean had given him his only bed covering. Over the bed was mounted an iron cross; Javert inclined his head respectfully. The one other bit of furniture was another desk, and was, in fact, the only nice piece in the entire house. It was a solid work of mahogany, stained dark brown, with a single drawer under the table top.

That was the final temptation, and one to which Javert was unequal. He tugged gently on the handle, and found, as he had expected, that the trusting Valjean had left it unlocked. There was only a manila folder, filled with a careful account of the hundreds of thousands of francs that the homeowner had earned under the name Monsieur Madeleine many years before. Even the three francs for yesterday's eggs were subtracted out.

Normally, the Inspector would have been fascinated with such a find, and would have pored over every entry, pondering its potential meanings. Not so today. Something was bothering him about the drawer - it didn't quite look right. Then he had it - the interior was far shallower than the outside of the drawer suggested. Valjean had had a false bottom constructed, covering what was apparently a pretty sizable item. The fake was so cunningly crafted, however, that it would never have stood out to Javert if he hadn't noticed the difference in size. Now scanning the edges carefully, Javert discovered a small black latch at the back of the drawer. This he pressed, and the false bottom popped up. Removing it, Javert beheld a long, thin black box in the true base of the drawer. He lifted the lid - and found himself once more perplexed. In spite of his changing opinions of Valjean's character, he had expected to find something more incriminating or of greater value than the garment he now beheld. Taking it carefully from its silk wrappings, Javert laid the item flat on the desk - a small girl's mourning dress, black felt with black lace. Tiny patent leather boots lay under where the dress had been.

Javert hadn't the faintest idea what he was looking at, but something of the dress' history rubbed off on him, and he gathered the impression of a desperate sort of nostalgia, of clinging to a past beyond recall. He could not have said afterwards how long he had stood there - maybe minutes, maybe hours - but so deep were his contemplations that he lost track of everything around him.

It was then that Valjean spoke. "You shouldn't be up yet."

Javert started horribly, scarcely catching himself on his crutches in time to avoid falling. He had not heard Valjean return, nor ascend the stairs, nor enter the room, and yet there he was, standing next to him.

Valjean's face was as icy as Javert's had ever been. "You could have gotten into serious trouble."

"Valjean," Javert faltered. "I didn't hear - "

"No, I expect you didn't," came the reply. Valjean briskly folded the dress into neat quarters and laid it back in its box, like a babe in a crib. Irrevocable longing was written across his features, and Javert was startled to see a single tear slide down his cheek. Javert, still slightly shell-shocked, sat down hard on the bed.

"Valjean, I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to - only I did, but I never..." What compelled Javert to say as much he had no idea. He'd never apologized for anything before, but perhaps he had also never really felt sorry for anything, either. And perhaps nothing else would have had the same effect.

Jean Valjean turned to him then, his eyes utterly haunted, and he asked "Do you know what I would give to have her back? My darling Cosette? These were hers, for after her mother died." He gestured at the box of clothing. "Now she's gone, married, and she's happy, and I'm happy that she's happy, but I miss her all the time. She lit up my every waking moment, even when she was only sitting in the garden. I don't know why I'm telling you this; it's not like you have any reason to care. I'm sure you're just excited to be going home in a couple of days and can't fathom what could possibly be so important about a dress." His voice broke, and he put the box back in the drawer, setting the cover over it. The folder he left lying where it was.

"If it's worth anything, I didn't mean to pry. I just wanted to understand," Javert's voice was soft.

"Understand what?" Valjean's question was sharper than he had intended, but Javert could forgive him that.

"Where this... compassion comes from."

"And do you understand, now?" Valjean asked, his voice almost as quiet as Javert's.

"No. But I think I'm starting to."


	7. Chapter 7

That night, Valjean let Javert sleep in his bed since he was already upstairs and he didn't want him trying to go back down "on that leg". He gave the Inspector the blanket to use again, and slept himself on the couch. Or rather, he spent the night on the couch; as it would happen, he got very little sleep. The cathartic outpouring upstairs had left him feeling drained, and expressing his feelings for Cosette, something he'd never even been able to be honest with himself about, let alone a near-stranger, had had the effect of releasing so much pent-up hurt that when it got out, it had exploded.

Jean Valjean hadn't been prone to such bursts of anger in decades, and his actions alone were enough to keep the man up that night, but then there too was the matter of Javert. He'd been a snoop - a spy! - and he'd unearthed memories Valjean would have rather had remained buried.

He found himself trapped in phantom visions from a time gone by: _Fantine's livid face, white with death, sheets stained with blood as tuberculosis took her, and then her horrified scream when _he_ entered. Valjean turned to see Javert, terrible in victory, swinging a set of chains in one hand, and holding an outstretched rapier in the other._

Only on this Sunday night, Javert victorious, having crushed Valjean's soul under his iron-shod boot, had had the nerve to apologize. Valjean ground his teeth. Why was he still so angry? Was it because Javert had blatantly ignored the common sense that would have prohibited most people from going through obviously private materials? Because he had betrayed Valjean's trust? Because he had expected better? Or because he was already angry, angry at Cosette for leaving him lonely, angry at Javert for reminding him of it, and angry at himself for resenting Cosette's happiness?

Long into the night, he stared into the fire, until his swirling emotions had burned down into smoldering coals.

* * *

Valjean was still slouched on the sofa when the morning sun had risen high enough to reach over the tops of the neighboring houses and penetrate the windows of Number 55. His eyelids drooped wearily, and he wondered if at last he might be able to rest. Just as he was about to nod off, however, he heard a shuffling at the top of the stairs: Javert was awake, and likely as not would be wanting breakfast. Groaning aloud, Valjean bent over and tossed a few smaller logs into the fireplace. He almost fell asleep, bent over as he was, but the staccato thump of Javert trying to manage the stairs with crutches gave him a sharp pain in his temples.

Rising groggily to his feet, Jean Valjean staggered his way to the staircase and peered up at the Inspector.

"I'm afraid we shan't have eggs this morning; we'll have to make do with some buttered bread. How do you take your tea?"

Javert paused, about halfway down the staircase. "Just water for me, please. And you needn't mind the butter on the bread."

Valjean sighed. "If you insist."

As he turned to put the water on, Javert took another step, and, being somewhat distracted, missed the step entirely with his crutch. Thus overbalanced, the Inspector tipped forward without any good way to catch himself. Had he been on a flat surface, perhaps he could have stopped his fall; not so on the stairs. Rather, he fell quite hard, tumbling a good six feet. Valjean, of course, had spun back around, and was therefore facing the stairs when Javert inadvertently crashed into him, catching Valjean in the chest. Both were knocked to the floor.

Each of the men felt their heads spinning wildly; it took a moment of hard blinking to still the rotating room, and when they did so, each found the other blinking back in their face. It was then that the pair realized almost simultaneously that Javert had landed more or less in Valjean's lap. The Inspector was splayed rather helplessly on the floor, his chest pressed to Valjean's. Each stared into the other's eyes, and both felt their respective hearts skip a beat. Javert looked away, muttering something about an apology and a curse on the stairs. He rolled off of Valjean as best he could, and grabbing only one of the crutches, he limped to the couch in the most dignified manner he could, dropping into the seat in a huff.

Still a little dazed, Valjean followed seconds after.

* * *

Javert's leg was propped up, glistening slightly with wet plaster. Valjean had recast the break after the incident with the stairs, assuming that the cracked cast was a result of that fall, and not something that had happened previously - Javert, still feeling slightly guilty about the events of the previous day, hadn't bothered to disabuse him of that notion.

If anyone had taken a peek through the windows of the house on Rue Plumet that afternoon, they would have seen two grown men engaged in what was perhaps the most serious game of chess to date, though neither was by any means a professional.

Javert ostensibly ignored the majority of the pieces, doing his utmost to capture Valjean's king. Valjean, meanwhile, played as most children do, just taking whichever pieces of Javert's he happened to catch unguarded, and as Javert was Hell-bent on his mission, doing so was not especially hard. The Inspector got more and more frustrated each time Valjean took one of his pawns, although even when the danger was totally obvious, Javert chose to ignore it. At each loss, he sank further down in his chair until his face was almost level with the table. Perhaps from that angle he could see some new stratagem; with the slightest of sneers, Javert took Valjean's bishop and checkmated the king.

Sitting back up, he crossed his arms and smiled gloatingly at Valjean.

"You see? I always win."

Valjean smiled back. "True. But you could have made that move two turns ago if you had been paying closer attention, and you wouldn't have lost the knight or the castle."

Javert's face faded into a more customary frown. "But I -"

"By the way," Valjean interrupted, "now that you're apparently well enough to walk on crutches you might consider letting your superior know that you're alright."

Javert's frown deepened. "I'll be asked to explain what happened, and I will not lie to the Commissaire. He will want to know who you are, and it is possible that he may want you arrested. I won't be able to refuse."

Valjean sighed. "I know. But you also can't put it off forever, and nothing is served by sitting and worrying about it. Tell the Commissaire that you are my guest until such a time as you are recuperated or wish to leave. After that, well, I am at his disposal."

The Inspector nodded slowly. "It will be as you say. I do need to speak with the Commissaire eventually, and sooner is probably better than later. He is a fair man - perhaps he will give you more of a break than I ever did."

"I will walk you to the police depot."

The game was forgotten. Their conversation had taken on a far more serious tone very quickly, and though a decision had now been reached, neither Valjean nor Javert seemed especially eager to go. Valjean was very withdrawn, absorbed in some inner musing, and Javert was gazing at him with growing concern.

Then by some unspoken agreement, Valjean rose and helped Javert to his feet, making sure the Inspector had a firm hold on his crutch. Jean Valjean wrapped himself in a coat, and pulled a top hat low on his head, shading his eyes. He glanced once more around his home before holding the door for the Inspector, and the pair made their way down the street, turning right onto the Rue Coquille, away from the Seine.

Javert had gotten used to walking with the crutch's aid, and was able to keep a steady pace. Still, it was well that Valjean had come along, because in places the street was deeply pitted and the Inspector had to have help in navigating some of the rougher patches. Luckily, the depot wasn't far, for Paris had many and there was always one such building within walking distance. This particular structure was relatively new and was built largely of wood, though the steps up to the door were carved of stone. There was a bench on either side of these, and a few small bushes added a hint of green to the picture. All in all, it was not the worst such depot Valjean had seen.

"I'll wait here," Valjean said, taking a seat on a bench. Javert climbed the stairs very carefully, not wanting to repeat his morning's accident, and, without bothering to rap on the door, entered. A half-dozen other officers were chatting mildly, but when they saw who had arrived, a hush fell over them. Just as quickly, they broke into a flurry of questions.

"Javert, you're hurt again! What happened?"

"I heard you were dead. Always glad to be wrong, right boys?"

"Where've you been?"

"You couldn't have bothered to check in with anyone, could you?"

Javert held up his hand, and immediately had silence.

"I don't intend to explain myself to anyone but the Commissaire. Is he here?"

A door in the back of the room opened, and a younger man stepped out.

"I am here, Inspector. Please, come in."

Sidestepping the other men, Javert followed the Commissaire into his office, closing the door soundly behind them.

"Commissaire Chassé. I am glad to find you in."

The Commissaire was in his late thirties, of average height and an unassuming appearance: short brown hair, spectacles, and a means of dress that looked downright shabby next to Javert's fastidious appearance. Only his eyes betrayed the reason for which he had been made commissioner - they were bright and clever, already trying to guess at pieces of Javert's story. His appearance was the antithesis of his intellect, and he liked it that way - people were often more open with those who looked like lesser men, if only by accident.

Seating himself at his desk, Chassé folded his hands and nodded. "It is luck that I am here at all - I'm working on a case, and have been moving around a lot. This is my first day here in the last week. But I digress. Your report, please."

He moved to take a sheet of parchment on which to record Javert's statement, but again, Javert held his hand up. Chassé stopped. Though he was, in technicality, a superior to the Inspector, he had a great deal of respect for Javert's work, and while he resented being ordered around his office, he also knew that Javert would never do so without good reason.

"Commissaire, before I give my report, I must ask - do you remember the Jean Valjean case? You were new at the time, but I believe you would have read over some of the documents."

The Commissaire, though not knowing where this vein of conversation would lead, nodded the affirmative. "It's funny that you should mention it - when you gave your report last, you mentioned him, this Jean Valjean. I had remembered hearing of the old con when I arrived here, but couldn't recall any of the details, so I looked the old reports up in the archives.

As I understand it, Jean Valjean was arrested for breaking into a shop and stealing a loaf of bread. He was sentenced to five years working the galleys, a sentence which was extended to 19 years after repeated escape attempts. He was released on parole, which he soon broke, and disappeared for many years. Eventually, he became successful, but turned himself in to save some fellow - Champmieuthu, I think - who was suspected of being Valjean and had been arrested. Valjean was then sent back to the galleys where he labored until he died saving a man caught up in the ship's Crow's Nest. He fell overboard and drowned. But then you said last week that a Jean Valjean was at the barricades. Are you trying to tell me it is the same man?"

Javert's dark grey eyes held the gaze of the Commissaire. "Upon my honor, I swear that it is the same man. It was also he who, when I tried to take my own life this past Monday morning, dove into the River Seine and dragged me out. I would be dead, otherwise."

Commissaire Chassé felt his blood run cold. "I'm sorry, but you did _what_? Are you trying to tell me that you tried to _drown_ yourself?"

Javert smiled thinly. "Quite. It would have worked beautifully, too, if Valjean hadn't followed me. How he got me out, I still don't understand. The river near the mill is supposed to be unswimmable."

The Commissaire opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to say anything. Then he sputtered "You jumped into the river_ there?_ And you're still _alive_?! God Almighty, either this Jean Valjean is a sorcerer or I'm talking to a ghost!"

"A ghost? Hardly," Javert said. "And I suspect that Valjean would be most amused by a description of him as any sort of a sorcerer. He simply has incredible strength."

Still scarcely able to believe what he was hearing, Chassé shook his head. "So then what happened? If you'll excuse my saying so, you look quite well at the moment, but if you tell me he dragged you out of that river without your being hurt at all, I'll have to have you suspended for suspected drunkenness."

"I am quite sober, Commissaire. And no, I was more than mildly incapacitated when Valjean rescued me. I was unconscious for three and a half days, my leg was broken and is only now beginning to heal, and I had numerous other scrapes and cuts. Valjean took me to his house, from where he has hardly left my side for a week, as of today. He has been nothing but a saint, tending to my wounds and feeding me well; he walked with me here today, to be sure that I did not fall and hurt myself further. I am not yet entirely proficient with the use of this crutch."

"So he is here?" the Commissaire asked. "I should like a great deal to talk to him."

"Commissaire, I would ask what you mean by 'talk to him', for while I have no complaint with your two just speaking, I would have to protest against any sort of official interrogation. I would not see Jean Valjean hurt, or detained, or otherwise 'persuaded' to speak against his will," Javert said, dropping his eyes slightly but keeping a firm tone, for he knew what sort of devices the police employed to force information from prisoners, and he had little desire to know that he had brought as much on his friend.

Chassé was in a state of disbelief - evidently, Javert's failed attempt to kill himself had effected a great change in the man's psychology; never before had the Inspector even batted an eye at the interrogation of anyone, criminal or ally. Though certainly a reasonable man, he could not let himself be walked over by anyone, not even Javert. His face hardened as he made his decision.

Finally, the Commissaire said "I will speak to him on my own terms. Bring him here."

Once again, Javert met Chassé's eyes. "Then I will watch."

"As you like."


	8. Chapter 8

Javert's face was expressionless as he stepped out of the police depot. Valjean, hearing the door open, looked up from the bench expectantly.

"Well?" he asked.

The Inspector faltered for a fraction of a second, but then drew himself to attention and said only "The Commissaire has asked that I take you to him."

Valjean closed his eyes and felt his stomach turn over. So Javert had sold him out after all. _Don't be an idiot_, he said to himself. _Javert warned you of what could happen, and you were foolish if you thought you wouldn't get taken in just because he gave you a good word or two._

Now equally expressionless, Valjean followed a stiff-backed Javert into the police depot. The other officers had congregated at an eclectic assortment of chairs and tables. They looked curiously at Valjean, but whether out of fear of Javert or for some other reason, none of them asked what he was doing there. The door to which Javert lead him was not the same one through which the Inspector had gone earlier. This door was made of iron, and was heavily bolted. Javert's hands were white as he took a key from his belt and and unlocked it, though still he gave no outward sign of distress. The iron barrier swung inward soundlessly.

Revealed through the aperture was a small room, the walls lined with stone instead of the same wood as the rest of the building. A torch was suspended on each wall, illuminating a table set between two chairs in the room's center. A man, the Commissaire, sat in the further of the two. The room's only other feature was a second, smaller, iron door in the back corner.

Javert ushered Valjean to the unoccupied seat, pushing him down rather more roughly than he might have without looking at him. Though metal cuffs were attached to the chair's arms, the Inspector did not bind him, and for that Valjean was grateful. The door had closed behind them, and he was becoming distinctly uncomfortable, remembering far too many similar events in his past.

The Commissaire peered down at a few sheets of notes he held on his lap, and then gestured to Javert, who had stepped to the side near one of the torches. "Inspector Javert requested permission to watch the proceedings. This request I have granted, provided that he does nothing to interrupt our discussion."

Here he paused to shuffle his papers.

"Are you Jean Valjean?"

"I am." Valjean's voice was strong and clear, and he had expertly wiped both fear and defiance from his voice, though he was feeling a bit of both; for this, Javert silently applauded him.

The Commissaire leaned forward. "Look, Valjean, I'm not here to play games. We both know who you are and what your history is, so let's skip the part where you pretend not to know what I'm talking about, okay?"

"Very well."

Chassé looked almost disappointed.

"You're taking this well. It doesn't frighten you that I can do as I like with you? You're supposed to be dead, and I'm sure there's a lot of people who'd like to know why you aren't."

"The king has laws about torture," Valjean said mildly.

"True," the Commissaire countered. "But dead men have no rights."

Behind him, Javert stifled an exclamation, which came out instead as a muffled choking noise; the Commissaire paused.

"Is there a problem, Inspector?"

Javert swallowed hard, but said nothing. Valjean's previous discomfiture had dissipated. He had been interrogated before and knew a bluff when he saw one, even if Javert was too wrapped up in the proceedings to see it himself. The Commissaire was trying to scare him, to make him trip up, invent some story and get caught lying. He would have to try a little harder than that.

"Commissaire," Valjean interjected, "It's only fair to warn you that I haven't feared pain since a certain officer," his eyes slid to the side of the room, "decided to brand '24601' to my chest. You're wasting your time with threats, and I'm sure that all three of us have more important things to attend to than this little session, so if you have a point to make, kindly get down to it."

"Alright, I'll 'get down to it'," Chassé leaned fully across the narrow table and grabbed Valjean's collar; their faces almost touched. "I want an explanation. Most people hate the police, or fear us, or both - as I understand from your records, you have more reason to want the Inspector dead than most - so why save him? Did you think it'd be nice to have someone in with the police in your back pocket? That maybe if you saved him, you could take advantage of his sense of duty, of owing you something, and get off Scott-free? If that was your ulterior motive, it's failed - the _dutiful_ Inspector brought you here."

Javert was stricken with a sudden foreboding: _had_ Valjean taken advantage of him? What if Valjean hadn't changed, if all this were an elaborate ruse he had fallen into neatly? He cursed his own weakness as the simplicity of the plot were made plain - and to think, he, Inspector Javert, had considered not obeying a superior officer for the first time in his life, had considered telling Valjean to run for it, rather than see the Commissaire. Clearly, he'd been wise to not act as thus.

But Jean Valjean shook his head sadly. "None of you understand it, do you? How one man may see another in pain and see a reflection of his own struggles? You see only what your job has blinded you to: the hate and evil in people. I have not hated Javert for decades, Commissaire, and when I came to the bridge, saw him jump, I knew that I did not want him dead. I fully considered myself his prisoner from the moment he woke up, and never expected that he would want to let me go. Since then, I've come to count him as someone dear to me, and if for that you would lock me up, you are at liberty to do so. I would ask only that you wait another day or two so that I could see the Inspector walk unaided; I would go peacefully, knowing that I had accomplished at least some measure of good." Then, having said everything he'd intended to, Valjean bowed his head and fell still.

Chassé was having a rather astonishing day. This little speech evoked emotion akin to that which he had felt when Javert admitted to attempted suicide. In one way at least, Valjean was absolutely correct - police work made it very difficult to accept people's good natures. This example of decency on Valjean's part was refreshing. Chassé had a singular remaining test, one as much for Javert as for Valjean.

Calmly, he made the first part of his request. "Javert, would you step outside a moment, please?"

Javert turned sharply from gazing at Valjean to glaring at Chassé. Valjean had called him 'someone dear', and all Javert's worry for the man's safety returned ten-fold.

"I had your word that I could stay."

Chassé raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Yes, you did. You had my word that you could stay as long as I was interrogating him. I'm done now. I just want to talk with him privately for a few minutes, and then the two of you can go on your merry way as you like."

Javert opened his mouth to say something else, but evidently thought better of it. Determining to trust his superior's good intent, he nodded to Valjean and stepped out of the chamber to wait. When he'd left, Chassé looked Valjean over thoughtfully.

"I don't believe people easily; it's my job not to, after all. But I have the feeling that you're telling the truth, and I've never known Javert's judgement to be wrong, either. So I'm left with a singular question for you: After everything that's happened, including this little charade we put you through, how do you feel now, honestly, about Javert? You don't really have to answer, but I'd feel better knowing."

Valjean noted that this was the first time all afternoon that Chassé hadn't referred to Javert by his title. The Commissaire's question, though, caught him off guard.

"What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean that while I respect Javert and would like to count him as a friend, he has never once in ten years accepted any sort of overture of goodwill beyond what station dictates. In fact, I don't believe I've ever seen him with a girl, or a friend, or an acquaintance, even once. He's always been completely aloof. And yet here he comes with you, and in a week the unapproachable Inspector has become the advocate of an ex-convict; I thought when he walked in here that maybe he'd been drinking. I don't know if you understand what you clearly mean to him, but I don't want to see him hurt, physically or emotionally. If all this was just a charitable act out of pity, and you don't have any interest in his companionship, I want to know, now, because that could very well break him."

Thinking back on the last week, the river, Cosette's dress, even the incident with the stairs earlier that morning, Jean Valjean found that he didn't know how to answer. To say he desired friendship seemed superficial, love sounded cliché - there wasn't any good word for the way he felt.

"It's hard to say; I've not had much practice expressing my feelings," Valjean said, stalling for some way to categorize his emotions. He gave up. Instead he said "If he wants friendship from me, I would give it gladly." Privately, though, he found he had a small, meek little hope wanting a connection deeper than friendship.

Chassé was apparently satisfied. "Good. The entire police force of Paris owes you a debt - Javert is one of our best officers and it would have been a shame to lose him. You deserve the Medal of Honor, but I haven't the authority to bestow it; you'll have to make do with a complete acquittal of any outstanding charges against you and the reestablishment of your person as a lawful citizen of France."

Valjean felt like he'd been dumped back into the Seine. "You can't be serious," he croaked.

The Commissaire misunderstood his reaction. "Of course, the offer still stands, but if you don't want to accept..."

"Want to?" Valjean stood. "Commissaire, for twenty-odd years I've had to live under false names, with fake papers. To be able to sign my name on a check as 'Jean Valjean', to be able to introduce myself honestly - it would mean the world to me."

"Then you shall have it. We had best be on our way out, though, before Javert thinks I've done something to you after all and has a brain aneurysm."

He strode deftly to the door and pulled it open, only to be nearly flattened by the Inspector, who pushed his way in almost immediately.

"If I didn't know better, Inspector," Chassé said shrewdly, "I should think you had been eavesdropping. But you can't possibly have been eavesdropping through a solid metal door, and thus, I know better."

"Quite so," Javert shot back. "But if I didn't know better, I'd have thought that you left the door unlocked precisely to see if I would try to eavesdrop."

The Commissaire's face seemed to redden slightly, but maybe it was only the light. Javert took Valjean's hands in his own and held them, and Valjean was surprised to find the Inspector trembling.

"Gentlemen, I have several leads on that missing persons case that I have to look into. If you'll excuse me, the door is, of course, open," said Chassé, waving slightly and disappearing, as likely as not going back to his office. He did indeed leave the door open, but only enough so that it was ajar, suspecting that the two men might like a moment of privacy.

The Inspector searched Valjean's face carefully.

"You're alright."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and with it, Javert seemed to relax some.

"Logically, I knew you would be - Commissaire Chassé will try to intimidate people, to make them confess things, but he doesn't care for violence. Of course, while I was trying to remind myself of that..." He trailed off at the end, not sure exactly what to say.

"Your emotions were having a field day, right?" Valjean smiled at him, trying to reassure Javert that all was well, but the Inspector's face was as grave as ever.

"Yes, that's exactly it. I couldn't handle the thought of anyone hurting you just then, and when you mentioned that - that time with the brand, the 24601 - I just -"

As the Inspector dissolved into guilty tremors, eyes closed tightly, Jean Valjean gently extricated his hands from Javert's, resting his right on the taller man's shoulder.

"Don't even think about it - that was a really long time ago! I wouldn't have said it if I'd known you would be so upset."

A moment of inspiration struck him, one of those moments when one doesn't know what one's doing, or why, but at the time it seems like the most, or indeed only, natural course of action. Valjean guided Javert closer so that they were only a breath apart, and put his other hand on the Inspector's back. He found that he suddenly felt very shy, and wondered vaguely if Cosette ever felt this way about her Marius, but then determinedly shook off the anxiety and stretched upwards just enough to plant the softest of kisses on Javert's lips.

A spreading warmth on his face, easy pressure on his mouth - the Inspector opened his eyes in surprise, not initially sure how to react.

Fearful of rejection, Valjean pulled back, mentally berating himself for acting on instinct. Javert, though, blinked rapidly as one who has made an incredible discovery. Even as Valjean started to turn regretfully, Javert grabbed his arm and spun him into an impassioned embrace, kissing him hard.

Now it was Valjean's turn to be surprised, but after a moment of shock at being on the receiving end, he found himself returning the gesture.

An osculation that lasted seconds spoke of years, and in that instant, each discovered what they had been looking for, unconsciously, for a lifetime: someone to adore and someone to adore them in return. What can one do to describe that First Kiss, so late in life that it had seemed it should never come? For Valjean, no memory of family, his sister and her children dead, no Cosette, never really his and gone now with Marius - For Javert, far too many memories: a father-shaped hole in his life, filled only on occasion by a man with a bottle and harsh words, a mother who had pushed him to the side, complaining of another mouth to feed even as she rotted in jail, years of abuse, of respect that was really only more fear -

All this melted into light.

Seconds of comfort to make old souls young.

And then it was over, and the two stared into each others' eyes; no longer was there a police officer and an ex-convict, just two people happy beyond words.

Then they turned in unison and walked hand-in-hand into the street. Neither said a word, for silence may tell more than words ever can.


	9. Chapter 9

In the sewers of Paris, a motley group of scoundrels will, occasionally, and to the untrained eye of a passerby, accidentally, congregate. These meetings are, of course, prearranged through a complex exchange of seemingly worthless items, delivered by various street urchins and other ruffians who have to make a living somehow, and know little, if anything, about the meaning behind the objects they are paid to deliver. One only schedules such meetings in times during which one is looking for potential partners to get a job done, and the greater the complexity of the set up, the more difficult the job, with a larger reward for its completion.

On one grimy Sunday morning, about a month after those events last related, one such a meeting occurred next to the sewer grate on the city's North end, although rather without the panache just described. Four men, apparently strangers and dressed in the uncouth rags typical of the Parisian poor, appeared at the same time from four different streets and stopped at the sewer entrance. One produced a rotted biscuit; the others produced the same. Recognizing the men he had requested, the first, dark haired and somewhat better looking than the other three, tossed the biscuit to the side disdainfully. The biscuit was hardly a signal appropriate to the magnitude of his objective (he felt he deserved at least an iron screw for his efforts), but he hadn't the time to set up a much longer correspondence.

"Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you," he said, cutting straight to the point.

"Oh come off it," one of the others, this one with dark red hair and a bad complexion, snickered. "You'd make a terrible prostitute."

The first man gave a long-suffering sigh. "Not that kind of proposition, as you very well know, Babet. I found some news that might prove interesting to you three." He turned to the last member of their company and added, "You especially, Thenardiér."

For who was it if not he, an old innkeeper become one of the most feared criminals in the whole Parisian underground?

And if Thenardiér was "most feared" then perhaps it was only because so little was known about his companions, Brujon, Babet, and the speaker, Montparnasse. For Thenardiér, there was no plot too twisted to devise, and for these three, there was no suggestion too demented to follow.

Montparnasse, with a dramatic flourish, pulled a newspaper article from under his jacket, clearly expecting excitement, or even applause, from his fellows. What he got was laughter.

Brujon finally stopped long enough to say "Not another one of these crackpot schemes, 'Parnasse! Do you remember what happened last time you got your ideas from the paper?"

"It was working perfectly until Babet tripped on the cat," Montparnasse growled. "And you'd best shut your trap before I shut it for you."

Babet and Brujon wiped imaginary tears from their eyes, but Thenardiér looked mildly intrigued. "Business has been bad lately - very bad. We could all use a job, even a little one. What exactly did you have in mind?"

At this, the other two stopped laughing - if Thenardiér was taking Montparnasse seriously, things could turn ugly if they blew him off.

Without missing a beat, Montparnasse returned to his soliloquy - he'd spent all night composing it. "Do you remember how, a couple of years ago, we set up that man, Jean Valjean, and instead of getting hold of all his cash, he escaped and that damned police officer, Javert, showed up?"

"Remember it? I spent two months in prison for it - I won't forget Valjean if I live to be a hundred," Thenardiér's voice was quiet, yet overflowing with menace. "Why?"

"Because," and here, Montparnasse brandished the newspaper article again, "I've got a very profitable suggestion for you, compliments of _La Presse Quotidien_."

He began to read, watching the others' faces eagerly.

_'Ex-Convict saves Inspector - Receives Acquittal'_

_At 3:30 on a Monday morning last month, Paris' top Police Inspector, Monsieur Javert, took a serious fall into the River Seine, just downstream of the DuBois' water mill, an area widely accepted as being fatal to swimmers. Jean Valjean, an ex-convict condemned to 19 years of slave labor for thievery, rescued the Inspector in spite of the danger to his own life. After a month spent contacting superiors and filing paperwork, local Commissaire Chassé was proud to clear Valjean of all outstanding charges_ ... etcetera," Montparnasse finished, crossing his arms smugly. The other three just stared at him.

"Pardon me, oh high and mighty 'Parnasse, king of worthless information," Babet began, stepping forward and mock-bowing low, "but how exactly is a legal Jean Valjean supposed to make any of us money? I thought you said you had a suggestion, not a pointless story."

All things considered, Montparnasse took the criticism well - indeed, he may even been waiting for it as a prelude to the reveal of the rest of his plan. As it was, he put his arm 'round Babet's shoulder and guided him back into the group.

"My friends," Montparnasse said quietly, "when last we attempted to force money out of this devil, he escaped us, and before he left, he put a hot brand to his skin just to show he could. This man is immune to physical pain, but -"

"Like you care about any of that," Brujon scoffed. "You weren't even there, remember? You were supposed to be out in the street watching for that Javert, but -"

"Shut up," this time, it was Thenardiér who spoke. He looked as one inspired, just beginning to grasp the edges of Montparnasse's idea.

Montparnasse nodded to his boss and continued. "So we can't torture him, he showed us that, but he showed us something else, too - we threatened to kidnap his daughter, and that got his attention like nothing else. He'd do anything for someone he cares about, and if that includes giving us a few hundred thousand francs, well, he'll pay it."

"You already said it though - we tried that," Thenardiér said skeptically. "We never were able to get his daughter - he gave us the wrong address."

"Yes!" said Montparnasse triumphantly. "And that was exactly the problem. You need to take the hostage first, and then the money will follow."

Brujon and Babet were looking more open to the idea, but still Brujon said "That's all great, but what's with the newspaper then?"

"I'm glad you asked." Montparnasse gently folded the paper and slid it back into his jacket. "I didn't read the rest of the article aloud because you three looked as interested as sewer rats in a bathtub, but there's an interview later with Valjean, who talks all about how he and Javert are good friends now - apparently they're even rooming together, if you can believe that."

"I'm not sure that I do," Thenardiér said, "but go on."

"Well," Montparnasse pulled another, separate article from his other pocket.

"Jesus!" Babet exclaimed. "Do you have the whole paper in there?"

"No," Montparnasse replied defensively.

"Only 'cause the rest of it's under his pillow," Brujon muttered.

Montparnasse gracefully decided not to reply to that, more because of Brujon's muscles than out of an unwillingness to argue. Instead, he continued without losing steam. "This story, from last week, says that the Inspector's been assigned to the Commissaire's big missing persons case - all those bodies dumped out in broad daylight."

"Oh yeah," Babet interjected. "That bit is all Gorneau's handiwork. His girlfriend left him, so he started by killin' her, and then everyone she ever knew."

"Well, tell him to keep it up! See, I had this thought - we make dear Inspector Javert think that we're behind it, we lure him in, set him up, and then - bam - we have a hostage that we can make Valjean pay through the nose for. After that, once we've got our money, we can personally thank the Inspector for all that prison time with a little 'accident'."

Thenardiér smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

"I think, boys, that business will be looking up real soon."

The four of them huddled together to make their next arrangements.

Then, they melted back into the filth of the streets, unnoticed by any, save an old crow perched on the top of a dusty lamp post.


	10. Chapter 10

Javert frowned, thumbing through the papers spread across the desk. The Commissaire had just had a new stack of reports brought to him, none of them encouraging. A small-scale group of disappearances was turning into a month-long massacre. At first the stories followed a logical pattern - a person or persons unknown killed a young woman and her family, and then moved on to close friends and clients. Apparently out of obvious victims but not yet satisfied with the killing spree, the murderer had next started targeting people who weren't obviously related - it was getting very difficult to track. These new reports hardly seemed to mesh with the previous pattern at all. The Inspector sighed. The worst part of it was that he had no way to warn individual people to be careful, now that the murderer had branched out to the general public, and the bureaucracy refused to let him make a general cautionary statement in the paper "lest he start a citywide panic".

Javert's mind drifted, finally settling on Jean. Just the name brought the slightest of smiles to his lips. That walk back to his house - their house, now - after speaking with Chassé had encompassed the first stage of love, shy pleasure in the company of another. Shyness turned to passion at the gate. The garden of 55 Rue Plumet was a lover's paradise, as Marius and Cosette had discovered themselves. And that night, Jean had held him close as they slept, and the world was warm and full of peace.

That was a month ago. In that time, Javert's leg had made a full recovery and he'd started going back to work. Valjean hadn't wanted him to go - with well over 600,000 francs in his bank account, there was really no need for Javert to return to playing the Inspector. Still, now more than ever, Javert recognized the importance of his job - no longer was he sweeping the streets of the unworthy sinners. Instead, he was making Paris safe for the one he cared about. Valjean hadn't been able to talk him out of it, so Javert donned his uniform and reviewed reports for Chassé.

Just as he was thinking as much, a rap came on the office door and in walked the Commissaire himself.

"Tell me you've been able to make something of that garbage."

Straightening in his chair, Javert returned to frowning. "I'd like to say that I could, but right when I thought I'd established a pattern, you gave me these." He gestured to the new papers. "Until these came in, all the murders were confined to the docks for... _obvious_ reasons, but now bodies have appeared as far away as the Rue Delôme."

Chassé nodded. "I saw the same thing. Do you think it could be a different killer?"

"I wouldn't want to discount that possibility entirely, as there's always potential to have a copy cat, but thus far all the victims have been much the same - impoverished, cut through the throat, and left in the open as a calling card."

"Again, we are in agreement," Chassé said. "But look at this one now. Officer Beaupré submitted it."

The Commissaire handed Javert another piece of parchment. The script was spidery, dated for the previous afternoon, and had the look of something written very quickly.

_Address: No. 76, Rue Delôme_

_Location: Back table of café_

_Weather Conditions: Cloudy_

_Start of Shift: 4:00 p.m._

_Report: Subject entered at 4:27, dark hair, top-hat, long coat. Sat without ordering. Was joined at 4:29 by another man who hitherto was seated near the front of the café. Hair color unknown, long coat with hood pulled over face. Men conversed quietly. Exchanged a small item - not money, but I wasn't close enough to see the details. The second man left the café at 4:37; subject sat alone. Family entered: mother, father, small boy, all fair haired, not wealthy. Mother set a small purse next to her chair. Subject stood as if to leave, dropped a 5 sous coin which fell near the purse. Subject bent to pick it up and discreetly placed the item he had received from the second man in the purse. Subject then exited the café. My shift in the café runs until 5:00 - if someone's going to follow him, it'll have to be Cyr - he's down at the end of the street now._

When he'd finished reading, Javert set the parchment down impassively.

"Cyr couldn't catch up with Beaupré's subject," said Chassé. "He was preoccupied with another lead and didn't see him leave. Any suggestions?"

"Regarding the subject in question? No. I can think of several known criminals who might fit that description, but without more information, it's hard to make a concrete conjecture. As for this mysterious object - none of the other reports mention anything of the kind." Javert closed his eyes, trying to put together a mental puzzle to which he was lacking pieces. "None of the other reports..." he muttered aloud.

"It's possible that it was a completely unrelated exchange," Chassé admitted. "After all, it's not like Paris is lacking in shady dealings."

"True... Nevertheless, instinct would tell me otherwise. I just can't see the connection yet."

"Well, when you figure it out..." Chassé turned to go.

"Commissaire -" Javert started, but Chassé held up his hand.

"I already know where you're going with that. Don't worry, I'll send someone to tell Valjean you're spending the night here. Again."

* * *

Javert closed the corpse's eyes with a sort of reverent horror. He turned and left the dark tenement hovel, retreating to where Beaupré and the Commissaire were standing, taking notes on the site.  
"Well?" Commissaire Chassé asked. "Are you satisfied?"

"Hardly. I won't be satisfied until this murderer is locked up with twenty-four hour surveillance. However, some important questions have been answered. I'm glad I insisted on coming." Javert neglected to mention that he was feeling mildly nauseous; he didn't need to let Chassé feel self-righteous about asking him not to come.

"What 'answers' have you gotten out of that dump?" Beaupré asked. "I couldn't make heads nor tails of it."

"Which is why Javert is an Inspector, and you're still an officer, Beaupré," Chassé reminded him. "What did you find?"

"First, am I correct in assuming that the dead woman in there is the same woman you observed at the café two days ago, Beaupré?"

"You are, yes. As for what happened to the boy and the father we've not yet ascertained."

"In that case, we can make at least one definite statement: the subject you observed at the Rue Delôme café is related to the case. Possibly, it was the murderer himself. It could also have been someone hired to mark the victim."

"With the object he received from the other man," the Commissaire said, catching on.

"Which indicates that more than one person is in on this. Also, we still do not know what this object is," Javert continued. "Many serial killers give all of their victims a small token - to them, it's a part of the sick game they think they're playing. If indeed this individual has a specific item he gives his victims, and we can find out what the item is, it may be easier to discover the next intended target, and thus our perpetrator. Therefore, I want a complete summary of all the items to be found in the apartment that are small enough to hold in the hand. Overlook nothing. If the same can be done at the other recent murder sites, so much the better."

"It will be difficult. The poor are like parasites - one of them dies, and the rest fight for their things. It is likely that the other houses have been looted," said Chassé, with some degree of disgust.

Javert looked disturbed by this. "Commissaire, you do not know what it is like to be so totally destitute that crumbs fallen from the mouths of others look heaven-blessed. They do not want to be poor, I assure you. I never -" He stopped. "Good day, Commissaire. Call me if you find anything. I'm going home; you can find me there."

Javert walked away, leaving Chassé and Beaupré alone. Beaupré glanced at the Commissaire out of the corner of his eye.

"You're going to let him talk to you that way?"

Chassé sighed. "If it were anyone else, I might reprimand him. However, I've only ever heard him talk back to authority once before, and that was a month ago when I told him I wanted to speak with Valjean. As it is, he's probably even right; I shouldn't have said that."

* * *

Javert let himself in through Number 55's gate. The unkempt garden was beautiful in its wildness - ivy crept over the stone flag path, wizened apple trees supported wisteria vines, heavy with fragrant purple flowers, and everywhere in between was stuffed as full of grasses and multicolored flowers as was possible; it almost seemed that Mother Nature wished to make up for the starkness of the stone in Paris with the Rue Plumet garden alone. When Javert gently eased his way through the front door, he found Valjean waiting for him, stretched out on the couch with a book loosely in hand.

"Good afternoon, Inspector. If you're looking for Monsieur Javert, I'm afraid he isn't here - off tracking down crazy murderers," Valjean teased, rising to his feet.

"Well in that case," replied Javert, who had learned a great deal about how to handle jokes in the last month, "perhaps I'll just leave until he comes back."

Pretending to go, Javert stopped when he felt Valjean's hand fall on his arm. Allowing himself to be pulled back around, he pressed his mouth to Valjean's, realizing as he did so just how much he'd missed him in the last two days. Valjean wrapped his arms around Javert's waist, and they stood there for a long moment, relaxing into each other's company. When at last they disentwined, the pair sat down together on the sofa and Valjean laid his head on Javert's shoulder.

"I thought maybe something had happened, when they told me you were staying at the office again last night."

"Just more reports - they're getting more and more cryptic as this case drags out." He explained how the criminals seemed to have left the port district, the incident at the café, and then the new victim that morning. "We had some little older woman, I didn't catch her name, come in saying that she'd heard a big disturbance in the tenement. The Commissaire sent Beaupré to check it out, and he came back an hour later totally in shock - he hasn't been assigned to a murder case before."

Valjean looked up, concern written across his face. "Don't tell me you went to go see it!"

"Commissaire Chassé didn't want me to, but I insisted," Javert said grimly. "Jean, they need me there. Beaupré means well, but he's still so new - barely out of the academy! And the Commissaire can't keep track of everything by himself. This whole operation has been underfunded and undervalued from the get-go. The bourgeois doesn't care what happens to those people, as long as none of their precious wealthy hides are touched. And the killer_ knows_ that! Even if he hates the bourgeois, he won't do any of them in to avoid giving us the leverage we need to crack down on him."

Valjean took Javert's hand. "I know. I know how much it hurts you to see innocent people dead. And you can always talk to me about it. I just want to know that you're safe."

"And I want the same for you." He sat in silence for a while, collecting himself. Valjean didn't push him. He knew Javert needed to talk, but he also knew that he would do it in his own time.

Javert said suddenly "The place was horrible. Tables overturned, things smashed on the floor - everything was ruined. And then there on the bed - it was a one-room house - her body, just totally decimated."

"It was a woman he killed?"

Javert nodded. "He'd slit her throat. I don't know if he wanted to be subtle about it or not, but if he did, he failed - the old woman who reported it heard the screams on the second floor. The blood was -" He stopped again. He couldn't bring himself to describe that image that was burned into his memory, so much so that he still saw flashes of it with his eyes open.

Valjean tenderly pulled on Javert's chin, guiding his face down to his own.

"Shhh," he whispered. "It's alright." He kissed the Inspector slowly, tracing the outline of his lips with his tongue. Javert's eyelids fluttered.  
"How is it," he breathed, "that you know exactly how to make me feel better when I have no idea myself?"

In answer, Valjean coyly slipped onto Javert's lap, tracing the side of the Inspector's lean figure with his hand. His hand hovered over that place where the pelvis flares out, ridging the skin. Their month together hadn't yet brought them to this point. Life was busy, and at night, the two generally just wanted to sleep. Today though... Valjean found that a pale blush had crept over his cheeks. Looking up through his eyelashes, he found Javert looking back at him with dark grey eyes. The mutual consent written on both their faces was consummated with Javert lightly pressing Valjean's hand to his thigh. Both felt the invisible tug drawing them together, and the sudden desire that burned through their hearts, mingling with love, that transformed into passion.

Afterwards, neither could remember that steamy rush to undo collars and button-down shirts, though surely it must have taken several flurried minutes. Suddenly though, skin brushed skin, and electrified nerves begged for more. Javert ran his hand down Valjean's back, tracing subconsciously the many old scars crisscrossing his person. Trembling, Valjean kissed Javert's neck, stroking his long hair.

"I love you," the words came soft and unbidden, so quiet that it seemed more like a thought than speech.

"I love you, too," Valjean whispered back.

Javert stroked a spot in the center of Valjean's chest where the skin was puckered in a permanent burn - 24601.

"I'm so sorry for this," he muttered.

Valjean's good humor was aroused. "And I'm sorry for knocking you to the floor with an iron bar that one time. I told you before - everything is alright."

Valjean was inclined toward jest, but after the day he had had, Monsieur the Inspector was more inclined to thoughtfulness. Snuggled together on the couch, neither said anything until:

"Does it ever go away?"

"What?"

There was another pause.

"This awful fear of something happening to - to someone that you love?"

Valjean smirked slightly. "No. It doesn't. But trust helps to ease it."

"Do you trust me?"

"With my life."


	11. Chapter 11

Javert opened his eyes sleepily. It was barely morning, and not yet light. He looked around, wondering what had woken him. Valjean was curled up on the other end of the couch, deeply asleep under a blanket. The fire was out, but the house was warm. The Inspector was about to bed down again when he heard a quiet knock on the door. Rising to his feet, Javert pulled on his jacket, still lying on the floor, and took hold of an iron fireplace poker. Cautiously, he made his way to the front of the room. There was another knock, slightly louder than before. Gripping the metal bar tightly, the Inspector opened the door - only to find a very tired-looking Commissaire about to knock again.

"Commissaire Chassé?" Javert relaxed his hold on the poker. "What's wrong? Come in."

"I woke you, didn't I? I'm sorry. I just felt that this couldn't wait until morning."

Javert guided Chassé to the armchair. Stirring slightly, Valjean woke much the same as Javert had, pulling himself up into a sitting position.

"Wha's goin' on?" he yawned.

Embarrassed, Chassé said "I really am sorry. Now I've gone and got both of you up early. I just needed to pick this over with someone, and Javert was the first person to come to mind."

Settling on the couch, Javert folded his hands. "News on the case?" he guessed.

Chassé nodded glumly. "We finished the inventory of small objects, as you suggested. However, I can't for the life of me guess which of these was the gift from the murderer." He handed Javert a long sheet meticulously listing everything from combs to stale bread.

"I think most of this can be ruled out on sight," the Inspector said. "Bread, plain cups - none of this is unique enough to well-mark a target." Turning to Valjean, he said "Do you have a pen?"

Five minutes later, all three were crowded around the paper, Javert crossing items off with Valjean's pen. "Candle stub - no. Quill - no. Plain brass ring - possibly, but it would be expensive to get one for every victim, so that seems unlikely. Well, now, this is interesting." He indicated the next item on the list. "Carved wooden disk, one inch diameter."

The Commissaire looked over the sheet. "It's odd that you mention that," he said slowly. "That was my guess, too. The thing of it is, though, well -" He pulled a small round of wood from his shirt pocket. "Look at this. A sun setting over Paris, with 'p.m.' under it. It looks more like a chip from a game than anything."

Javert was curious. Taking the chip from Chassé, he looked it over carefully. "This reminds me of something," he said, "but I can't quite remember what."

Chassé shook his head. "It's hopeless. I've asked every man who's at the depot right now, and it means nothing to any of them. If you don't know either..."

"I didn't say I didn't know," Javert replied sharply. "I only said that I can't remember at this godforsaken hour of the morning. If you've already shown the chip to everyone else, you might leave it here to see if it might jog my memory. At any rate, if this isn't the murderer's marker, then your men missed something - everything left on the list is extremely improbable."

"My officers missing something is equally improbable. They were very thorough, knowing that more lives depend on their work."

"Then there are two possibilities," the Inspector told him. "Either this is the murderer's token or the object was taken from the house by the killer. By the way," he added, "where did you find this chip, anyway?"

"That's the funny thing, isn't it?" Chassé said. "It was sitting right in the middle of the table."

"A little too deliberate to be unconnected, don't you think?" Javert was more than a bit smug, and the Commissaire waved him off.

"You certainly make a fair argument, Inspector. Let me know if you think of anything else." Chassé stood. "Gentlemen, thank you for your time." In making for the door, Chassé turned once to Valjean. "You've taken up with a good man, you know."

Valjean smiled. "I know."

Nodding, Chassé left Number 55, Rue Plumet.

"How did you hear him to let him in?" Valjean suddenly wondered aloud. "If he'd called, and you heard him from the gate, it should have woken me as well."

"He didn't call from the gate," Javert said, somewhat distractedly. "He just knocked on the door."

As what he'd said sunk in, the Inspector cursed softly. "I must have left the damn gate unlocked when I got home. I wanted to see you and forgot..."

Valjean laughed. "Ah well, the door was locked, and after all, it was only Commissaire Chassé. No harm done."

Of course, that wasn't entirely true. Another figure had entered the garden behind the Commissaire, silent and unseen. A dark cloak, borrowed from Brujon, blended into the shadowy garden trees. Outside the window, Montparnasse watched Chassé, Valjean, and Javert pore over the parchment, and then the wooden disk. He smirked to himself - the bait had worked, just as he had said. It wouldn't take Javert long to unravel the chip's cryptic message, and in his haste to catch the murderer, he would make a mistake. It only took one.

Long after Chassé had returned to the depot and Valjean and Javert to sleep, the ruffian vanished over the garden wall, melting into Paris as day dawned red.

* * *

Thenardiér was renting out a large first-story tenement at the end of the Rue Monge, one of those streets wrapping in a dead end around a stone cul-de-sac. The street was decrepit, shutters rotting, stones deeply pitted, and was vacant of other renters. A combination of disease and crime had driven all but the most desperate from the vicinity, and the Patron-Minette gang had made short work of those who remained. The government owned the properties now, and it was from the government that Thenardiér rented his wicked establishment under the name Jondrette, a pseudonym that had served him well in the past.

It was true that he rented the place, but he did not live there. His wife and daughter, Azelma, still occupied their proper place in the sewers. The Rue Monge was no house to Thenardiér, but more like the office of an extremely disreputable businessman. While Montparnasse slipped out by night to slit throats, Babet and Brujon labored by day to turn the tenement house into a waking nightmare. The wooden flooring was pulled up to reveal the stone foundation, and the wall plaster was likewise torn down. Furniture was removed, a half-dozen locks were added to a new front door, and metal cuffs and bars were driven into the stone. A single cast iron stove was left in the room's corner, but it provided the room no warmth. One would have done well to wonder exactly what sort of business Monsieur Jondrette was conducting in such a place.

Of the three in the tenement, only one room was not thus altered: the back room, containing a second door, the only window in the building, and a desk, which today was covered by dozens of wooden disks, some inscribed with the same sun design that Commissaire Chassé had indicated. This was Thenardiér's personal workshop, and today he was casually whittling more tokens. He heard a gentle thump in the tenement's back yard as someone climbed over the high wall. Moments later, Montparnasse breezed through the entrance and dropped onto a low chair by the desk, grinning jauntily.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, trading Brujon's cloak for his own motley top-hat.

"It went well, I take it?" Thenardiér was used to Montparnasse's insolence, and it was not lost on him that the lad, barely twenty years of age, had comfortably assassinated half a dozen people in the last week. He was one to watch, certainly, lest Thenardiér wake up with a knife between his own ribs.

"Very. The gate wasn't even locked."

Thenardiér paused his whittling. "That is unlike Javert. Either you were expected, or he is really slipping in his old age."

Montparnasse leaned forward in a manner much like a young lady on the verge of revealing the latest gossip. "Or maybe his common sense has been clouded by a _love interest_."

Thenardiér stopped whittling altogether. "Are you saying that the dear Inspector has a lady-friend?"

Montparnasse shook his head, smothering a burst of laughter. "No. But I _am_ saying that I don't think I've ever seen two unrelated adults go to sleep together who weren't romantically involved, and, well Thenardiér, I've seen whores who don't kiss as well as that Jean Valjean."

Much like Javert, Thenardiér was not one easily astonished. Montparnasse's little revelation, though, surprised him. Even as he recovered from his initial shock, Thenardiér's mind started scheming.

Twirling a quill between well-groomed fingers, Montparnasse looked his employer over carefully. "Do you want to change plans and get them accused of sodomy? There's plenty of prejudice against it still - the revolution couldn't change that - and total social humiliation has some appeal to it."

"True," Thenardiér conceded, "But it does not fill stomachs. My thought is this - we continue with the original plan. I admit, I had had some reservations - Valjean might not be willing to pay out a huge sum of money for a friend, but if the two are a couple..."

"...then the possibilities become much more interesting," Montparnasse finished. "I'm glad we see eye to eye on this."

"You never did tell me - what did Javert make of your little 'token' design?"

Montparnasse laughed again. "He hasn't quite gotten there yet, the old dog. Give him another day or two, and he'll figure it out."

"Were you going out again tonight?"

"I was planning to - another death might bring back Monsieur the Inspector's memory."

When night fell, Montparnasse made a casual sweep of the docks, his go-to facility, but all the lovely ladies seemed to have been scooped up by other clientele. The Rue Delôme would still be crawling with officers, he knew, so it was time to branch out into another street. Suddenly, the Patron-Minette's leader was struck with inspiration.

As one will remember, the Rue Coquille branches into many side streets, one of which is the Rue Plumet. It was there, on this small thoroughfare, that Montparnasse decided to make his move. If the intent was to grab the Inspector's full attention, an attack closer to home might prove more effective. A raven-haired girl was tracing circles around a lamppost, dressed in a close-fitting black dress and corset. When she saw the young dandy in his top-hat, she beckoned him closer. Montparnasse took the proffered hand.

"My lady," he touched his lips to her skin. "My business card, so to speak -" he handed her a carved wooden chip, "- and your fee," he added, dropping a ten franc note into her hand. The two disappeared into the dark building behind them.

An hour later, only Montparnasse reappeared, though the girl would usually have gone back to her lamppost. He tucked his ten franc note back into his pocket and strode whistling down the street.

Inside the building, a disk inscribed with a sun lay amidst a pool of blood.


	12. Chapter 12

Javert set the last box down in the bedroom. He hadn't thought that he owned all that much until he had to move it to the Rue Plumet. In the month he and Valjean had been together, the Inspector had gradually brought his things from his apartment by the river and integrated them into the house's décor. Looking at the Seine still made him uncomfortable; even if he hadn't partnered with Valjean, he would have moved. As it was, Number 55 was comfortable, and Valjean's lack of possessions made finding places for things easy. Together, the two practically had a full set of furniture. His last box was rather smaller than the others, containing only a few personal effects. He'd gathered them that morning after sleeping off Chassé's surprise visit and had informed the Commissaire of his official change of address shortly thereafter.

Flipping open the lid, Javert hesitated, not sure whether any of the box's contents really needed to be displayed. On top rested a faded letter, a mother-of-pearl hair comb, and a small medal, courtesy of his playing spy at the barricades. He hadn't wanted that, but the Commissaire had insisted. He'd said in his office that "in spite of danger to life and limb", the Inspector had shown "exemplary courage, and deserved to be rewarded".

Javert withdrew the medal carefully from the box. It was a weighty silver star suspended from a red ribbon, together not much bigger than the palm of his hand. It gave him no pleasure, or sense of accomplishment. Instead, it summoned painful memories of a knife in the dark and a carriage ride with a boy's body.

Javert's outward expression had been unaffected; now it deepened slightly. _Marius Pontmercy..._ Why did he know that name? Now that it came to it, something in the face of the injured revolutionary had been familiar beyond just having seen him at the barricade.

Abruptly dropping the medal back in the box, Javert turned and left the bedroom, going down the hallway and stairs. Unpacking could wait.

"Jean," Javert called into the living room.

"Yes?" came the reply. "Do you want help with your unpacking after all?"

"No, that's fine. But I do have a question for you."

Valjean was reclining in the armchair; at this, he sat up. "Fire away."

Dropping onto the couch, Javert leaned toward him. "That boy that you saved from the barricade - Marius - I feel like I've seen him before, and I can't get over this sense that it's important. Have you the slightest idea where I might have run into him?"

Valjean thought hard, trying to recall all the places where he'd seen the boy. "Well," he said finally, "the Luxembourg Gardens aren't far from here; there was a time some months ago when he'd wander through almost every day, trying to catch a glimpse of my Cosette."

"I don't think that's quite it," the Inspector told him. "I'm not usually told to patrol the gardens, so I can't see myself coming across him there."

"I can't think of anywhere else that I've seen him. Might he have reported some complaint to the police station, and you saw him then?"

Javert stiffened as a dim memory returned to him, from almost a year ago now. Baron Marius Pontmercy - for that was how he'd introduced himself - had informed the Inspector of a crime to be committed against a Monsieur Fauchelevent: a robbery, at a nasty, isolated tenement known as the Old Gorbeau House.

"Yes... Yes, that was it exactly. The boy came in and told me that Monsieur Thenardiér, alias Jondrette (I believe you're familiar with him), was going to rob someone with the help of the Patron-Minette, a local gang of thugs," Javert spoke half to himself, warming to the vision. "When I got to the house, I caught all four of them red-handed. Their victim ran off, though, before I could speak to him. He was probably another such criminal; why else would he run?"

Valjean blinked at him.

"What?" Javert asked.

"I remember that incident myself, though I didn't realize I had my son-in-law to thank for your 'assistance'."

"That was you?" the Inspector asked incredulously. "Of course it was; I should have known. It would appear that our fates are linked more closely than I realized."

Valjean just smiled. "I was certainly surprised to see you at the time. I take it that Thenardiér and company went to jail, then?"

Javert's smile turned sour. "Oh, you bet they did. All four were condemned to prison until they rotted. Thenardiér even had twenty-four hour surveillance on his cell. Still, they escaped somehow, and have been lying low ever since."

Valjean felt rather uneasy at this. Thenardiér had more than a couple of bones to pick with him. Still, it's not like he was incapable of defending himself either. "Why do the thugs call themselves the Patron-Minette? Sunrise seems to have little to do with thievery."

Javert laughed, but mirthlessly. "It's a joke in Argot slang. Sunrise, to thieves is the 'hour at which their work ends, the dawn being the vanishing moment for phantoms and for the separation of ruffians'. They seem to think it's funny." At that moment, though he had appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, Javert ceased speaking. His hand, with which he had been articulating his frustration, fell to his side.

"Javert - are you alright?" Valjean was puzzled by this strange attitude. The Inspector's face was as emotionless as ever, but only rarely did he interrupt himself thus, and only during great emotional distress.

"It's sunrise, not sunset..." Javert murmured. "Sunrise. God Almighty..."

"Javert?"

Leaping to his feet, Javert strode to the console table by the stairs. He picked up a wooden disk from where he had dropped it earlier that morning.

"Don't you see, Jean?" Something in Javert's eyes was haunted, though whether by bygone phantoms or some current menace Valjean could not have said. "Chassé said that the image carved here was a sunset over Paris. For hours, I haven't been able to get around that description. But it's not a sunset at all, is it? It's a sunrise."

With a horrible certainty, Valjean found he understood exactly what Javert was getting at. He hurried to where Javert was standing.

"And the PM carved at the bottom..." Valjean whispered. "Patron-Minette. The moment for the separation of ruffians."

"The only issue with this theory, of course," Javert said, his logical side reasserting itself, "is that the Patron-Minette has never been known to reveal themselves in this way. Indeed, they're experts at getting away without leaving any trace of their presence."

"So perhaps we're wrong. Someone could be trying to push the blame onto the gang, to frame them with supposedly incriminating tokens." Valjean felt a little better about that idea, though it didn't change the fact that the actual perpetrators were murderers. Still, the thought that those responsible for all the recent deaths might have a personal vendetta against him was more than a little disturbing.

"It's possible. Or the Patron-Minette might have decided it is time for them to make a statement. In any event, this must be told to Commissaire Chassé at once." Javert made for the door.

"You're leaving_ now?_"

Stopping, the Inspector said quietly "Jean, if I don't go now, someone else might die. The sooner the police have information, the sooner we can put whomever is responsible behind bars."

Valjean too went to the door. He wrapped his arms tightly around Javert and kissed him on the cheek. "For luck," he said. "I hope you find them."

"I hope I do, too."

Outside, the streets were darkening, though it was only a little after 4:00. Heavy clouds had rolled in from the west; it looked like rain sometime in the next few days. Javert hurried down the street, not quite running, but walking swiftly in such a manner of authority that passerby shoved each other to get out of the way. His blue jacket was immaculate, and the heavy cane tucked under his arm lent him the air of one not to be accosted. Gone was Valjean's sweetheart, replaced by Monsieur the Inspector, still the terror of the criminals of Paris.

He had not made it to the end of the Rue Coquille, however, when he noticed a rowhouse bristling with officers. In a split-second of decision, Javert turned and headed for the dark building, lit only by a lamppost at the street corner. As the other officers noticed him, the chatter ceased, and the many uniformed figures drew back, granting the Inspector the access to the door over which all of them had been arguing. Javert laid his hand on the doorknob, but even as he did so, the door was opened from inside.

"Inspector!" a voice from within exclaimed. Through the now-open doorway stepped Beaupré, who looked both panicked and relieved. "What's going on?"

"It's funny; I was about to ask you the same thing," the Inspector replied, though his expression suggested that it was not funny at all.

"You mean you don't know? I was assuming you'd been assigned to clear things up!"

"I don't have time for platitudes, officer," Javert said curtly. "I need to speak to the Commissaire."

From Beaupré's stricken face, Javert immediately guessed what part of the commotion was about. "He's not here, is he?"

"No, sir," another officer spoke up.

"Perhaps you'd better come inside," Beaupré suggested shakily.

Javert followed him down the murky hallway. The walls were coated with peeling wallpaper, edged with something that looked rather like mold. At every step, old floorboards creaked. There were a few doors branching off the hall, but Beaupré passed these by without hesitation, making for the final door at the hallway's end. When they reached it, Beaupré stopped and faced Javert.

"The Commissaire arrived here around noon. We'd had an informer say something about another murder, and he practically flew out of the police depot; the rest of us had to get things together before we could follow. When we got here, the Commissaire was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was this." He gingerly pushed the door open.

Javert felt his stomach clench. The similarity between the rowhouse and the tenement on the Rue Delôme was spooky. The sheets had been ripped from the moldering mattress, and lay in tatters across the bloodstained floor. The poor girl, a prostitute from the look of things, was slumped against the headboard. In the midst of ripped fabric and debris lay one of the accursed tokens, the pale wooden disk stained dull scarlet.

"You searched the whole building?" the Inspector asked.

"Twice, at least," Beaupré confirmed. "If Chassé made it here, he vanished."

"Do we know he made it here?"

At this, the officer hesitated. "We can't confirm it for certain," he said reluctantly. "Some of the newer officers have been gossipping, saying that he's gone and run off, that this case was too much for him. But I don't believe it."

Javert looked Beaupré in the eyes. "There's something you're not telling me. What else happened?"

Beaupré winced. "You don't miss a trick, do you? Officer Cyr followed me in; he's been assisting me a lot with my patrols, and asked to come along. He found this in the kitchen." Beaupré withdrew another identical wood chip from his pocket. Like its mate on the floor, this was emblazoned with a rising sun over the streets of Paris.

As if in a dream, Javert took the chip, staring at it.

"It may be nothing," Beaupré added doubtfully. "Maybe he dropped another on accident, whoever this murderer is. It could just be -"

"Show me." Javert's order was quiet, but the command in it was undeniable.

Beaupré immediately guided the Inspector to the first of the doors they had passed earlier. Through it was a slum of a kitchen, with a little-used fireplace gathering soot, and a table covered with a cloth of dust. A grimy window let in a single ray of the dark day's sun.

"It was there." Beaupré indicated the spot where the sunlight illuminated the floor. Javert knelt. The floor was less dusty than the table, and he knew his own officers had walked through the area, yet it seemed to him that he could yet make out the dim imprint of a light leather shoe having made tracks. The window was unlatched; it gave an unearthly shriek when the Inspector opened it.

"He wouldn't have got in through there," said an incredulous Beaupré. "The front doorknob could be picked by a child with a toothpick, and that's no exaggeration. Any street scum worth his salt would go for the easier, quieter entrance."

"Normally, that might be true." Javert spoke through his teeth, distracted. He was too focused to pay much attention to what he was saying. "However, I'm not looking for how he got in. I'm looking for how he got out."

Javert leaned through the window and turned so that his back was pressed to the sill and he could look up. The roof on the rowhouse sagged, and a spot that might once have dipped down decoratively now slumped low - low enough that some nimble person standing on the window sill might have been able to grab hold of it and climb onto the roof.

"The thieves' highway," Javert muttered under his breath. Then, he caught sight of a distant figure standing atop one of the neighboring buildings. Even as he watched, the person vanished behind a chimney. The Inspector pulled himself back inside the window, and without any sort of explanation to Beaupré, he ran out the kitchen's back door into the weedy garden shared by the rowhouse inhabitants. The building where he'd seen the figure abutted the back of the garden; a slim alleyway cut between it and an old warehouse.

"Where are you going?" Beaupré asked.

"I think the Commissaire has been made prisoner, possibly for some sort of ransom, or to try to negotiate an end to police interference in this campaign of terror. I just saw someone up on the roofs here; I'm going to follow him. You go back to the squad to finish things up here."

"Are you sure you ought to go after this guy alone?"

Javert gave him such a withering look that Beaupré actually took a step backwards.

"If you're sure, then..."

Javert faced the alleyway, focused now solely on the hunt. This assassin had escaped justice for far too long, and now had had the audacity to take the Commissaire as a captive. If Javert's sense of duty to the law had lessened since his fall at the bridge, his sense of morality had become all-consuming. One way or another, he was determined to see this affair at an end.

The Inspector entered the alley, surprisingly agile for all his age and clean, well-pressed uniforms might suggest. The alley was choked with garbage, and Javert used it to his advantage, as a tiger might choose to blend with the tall grass of its environment. At the alley's end he looked up - the person he had seen before was standing at the roof's front corner, looking forward and away from the Inspector.

Javert smiled - the murderer had not seen him.

As the figure vaulted to the next building, Javert shadowed him on the ground, out of sight and silent. This cloaked ruffian scuttled to the next closest roof, and then the one after that, sometimes disappearing from the Inspector's sight but always reappearing a few steps ahead. Up and down winding streets they danced, but Javert felt totally at ease. The thug was not aware of him, but knew better than to go straight back to his hiding hole in the event that he was being pursued. This serpentine circulation of Paris was a routine caution, not an actual attempt to lose him. Such was the Inspector's reasoning.

The streets of Paris are designed much like a spider's web - narrow, intricate, with uncountable back ways, side streets, and alleys, always with the multi-storied buildings, some vacant, some home to hostile eyes, overshadowing the cobblestones. One can live in Paris one's whole life and still not know all the ways around it. Javert's focus on his target was admirable, in that the practiced thug could not escape the Inspector's following, but by that same single-minded focus, his eyes were blind to the surrounding city. Slowly, as the clouds thickened and the bell rang out the dinner-hour, Javert came to the realization that he had utterly lost his bearings. Nonetheless, he kept religiously to his task; as the sky darkened still further, this creature he had tracked blended all the better with the shadows so that he was at times invisible. With a running leap, the assassin jumped the gap between tenements, landing on the other side of the street. This time, he truly disappeared. Javert found himself alone.

The Inspector slipped into the road down which his subject seemed to have fled. A rusted sign, hung from a leaning lamppost, spelled out "Rue Monge". The road ended in a circular cul-de-sac around which was situated an impenetrable wall of tenements. In the center of the circle lay a small prone figure, barely visible in the dim light.

Abandoning stealth, Javert hurried to the body.

Commissaire Chassé was staring wide-eyed at the threatening sky, blood bubbling out of the gash across his throat. His brown uniform was spattered with maroon, and the nerves in his hand twitched slightly. The Inspector knelt, knowing too well that he could do nothing for his superior. Chassé looked sidelong at him as his lifesource spilled onto the ground. It seemed to the Inspector that the dying man tried to impart some message with his eyes, a warning. The subtle shift in them screamed _"Look up!"_.

It was then that it occurred to Javert that this wound was fresh - unusually so. A man could bleed out completely in the span of a few minutes; the fact that Chassé was yet alive suggested that this had happened moments before - the murderer was nearby. He had let himself be led straight into a trap.

As the Inspector made to stand, a voice came from behind him.

"Going somewhere?"

There was a crack that echoed across the stone. Javert stumbled forward, clutching his head, and tripped over Chassé's now-dead body. Falling into a red puddle, the Inspector realized the full breadth of the trouble he was in. Then his eyes closed, and for some time, he knew nothing more.


	13. Chapter 13

Beaupré organized the police officers into teams of two. With the house on Rue Coquille secured, they set out attempting to trace Javert's flight after the murderer. The trail, however, disappeared after only a few blocks. Defeated, the men returned to the depot to file paperwork or chew on a cigar. Beaupré enjoyed neither luxury, taking it upon himself to instead go and update Valjean on the events of the afternoon.

A single light shone through the window of Number 55, and it seemed that Valjean had been waiting, for even as Beaupré was about to call up to the house, the door opened and Valjean hurried to the gate to let the officer in.

"Beaupré - what are you doing here? What's going on? Is the Inspector alright?"

Looking into Valjean's worried face, Beaupré almost lost his nerve to say anything.

"There's been a - complication," Beaupré managed, not sure how much tact was appropriate in such a situation. It seemed better to give Valjean the facts, or what they knew of them, outright, but it seemed cruel to give the poor fellow more reason to worry.

"You'd best come inside. And define 'complication', please."

Entering the house and sitting in the proffered armchair, Beaupré launched into the story of the dead girl and Chassé's disappearance.

"And then," he concluded, half in frustration, half in admiration, "when Inspector Javert got a glimpse of a suspicious person on the rooftops, he insisted on following him right then and there. He also, of course, insisted upon going by himself. The other officers and I had to finish the arrangements for the girl's body, among other things, so I couldn't very well demand to follow him."

"You mean that he's out there by himself, chasing down a murderous band of thugs who have already killed more than two dozen people?" Valjean's face, ashen as it was, could not accurately portray the depth of the horror that he was experiencing. If Javert, _his_ Javert, were hurt - or worse - the criminals would find that they had Hell to pay sooner than they had anticipated. No being on earth or below it had the power to raise the dead, however, and Valjean found himself faced with the terrible prospect of having to live without another loved one.

Standing abruptly, Valjean was halfway to the door before Beaupré stopped him.

"I know you want to help - I do too! But he could be anywhere right now. If we had even the faintest idea where the hideout of these criminals is, we could start closing in on them, but we don't know. As your friend, Inspector Javert would want you to stay here, out of harm's way. I'm sure he'll be back soon, probably with the Commissaire and a dozen ruffians in tow."

Valjean, distraught as he was, was caught off guard. "Is the Patron-Minette that big? From how Javert described them, the group sounded smaller."

Beaupré was dumbfounded. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Patron-Minette - I thought it was just three or four thugs, not a dozen."

"What has the Patron-Minette to do with this?"

"Didn't Javert tell you?" Valjean was not in any way comforted by Beaupré's reaction - how could Javert have forgotten to mention that most important detail? "He had been examining the tokens left at each of the deaths, and determined that those responsible for this had to be the Patron-Minette, likely being aided by a Monsieur Thenardiér. He'd been on his way to tell Chassé about it when he left."

The officer gaped at him as he put two and two together. "Of course! The whole sunrise thing, right?" He remembered then all the stories he had heard about the gang - each member had a dozen aliases, were wanted on charges ranging from theft to torture, and were impossible to catch. Beaupré's stomach sank like lead. "Oh my - And he still went after them? That's commitment for you."

"We have to try to find him!"

"Look," Beaupré took Valjean by the arm. "Javert has proven on innumerable occasions that he is beyond capable of taking care of himself. It's as likely as not that nothing is wrong, but if something were to have happened - and I'm not saying that it has - he's more likely to be hurt if we go after him. You follow me?"

Valjean did understand the officer's logic, but that didn't mean that he liked it, and he said as much.

"I understand," Beaupré said wearily. "Try and get some sleep tonight. Now that we have a guess as to who is involved, we can maybe start making some headway on this. In the meantime, don't do anything rash." In reality, he held out little hope of his own - too few were the rumors surrounding the notorious criminals' whereabouts, and these were sketchy at best. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to admit it aloud, as much for Javert's sake as for Valjean's.

An hour after Beaupré had left, presumably to go rally the forces of Paris, Valjean took the candle from its place in the window. The light glinted off the silver candlestick, wavering in the dark room.

Climbing the stairs, Valjean hesitated momentarily, and then entered not his own quarters, but Cosette's, and looked around dazedly. He hadn't cleaned the place since his daughter had moved out. The furniture was gathering dust, and a stray cobweb fell across the bed. Without seeing any of this, Jean Valjean placed the candlestick on the dresser and dropped heavily onto a small chair set before it. The room whispered of broken dreams, nearly drowning the little Divine comfort the candle offered. Staring hopelessly into the flame, Valjean held vigil through the night, and with each passing hour realized that those whom he loved were now, in one way or another, lost to him.

* * *

Javert returned to consciousness slowly. He lay outstretched, one palm was pressed to the gritty floor. It was icy, in the peculiar way only stone can be, like it had been absorbing the cold for so long that now it just radiated it. Something was prodding him in the side, but in attempting to turn over, he was raked by a wave of dizziness and a splitting headache.

The Inspector had only been inebriated once in his life, when he was twelve, before he'd joined the Ecole Royale Militaire Académie. As it happened, the officer who had kicked him out of the pub for public drunkenness had referred him to the Academy a week later. From what Javert recalled, his hangover from that evening had felt a great deal like what he was currently experiencing.

Time passed, though what with the darkness of the room, the Inspector could not have said how much. It might have been minutes. It might have been hours. Gradually, he was able to recollect everything up to the point where he had been rendered unconscious. It seemed probable that he had been made the prisoner of the Patron-Minette, though to what end he could not yet say. In all likelihood, his imprisonment was to end in his death. Once, he would have felt a sense of peace in that knowledge, as he had at the barricade. Now, though he did not fear death or those who wrought it, the thought of never seeing Jean again was unbearable.

He was lying on his stomach, with his head resting on his right arm. For what length of time he had been in such a position, he did not know, but his arm was feeling more and more numb. A thin bead of light shone in through a crack behind him. Recognizing the need to move, Javert braced himself against another bout of nausea and pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily on the wall behind him. As predicted, it seemed that the world spun wildly on its axis, but he hadn't eaten recently enough to vomit. A painful tingling ran down the arm he had been leaning on; he tried not to move it. He also noticed that the side of his face seemed to be caked with dry blood. Javert decided that it was safer not to guess at how much was his and how much was the Commissaire's.

From this new vantage point, the Inspector could see that the light came in from under a door. It wasn't nearly bright enough to see more than the dim outlines of things, but so far as he could gather, he was in a small cell, all of stone, empty of anything else. A long iron chain ran from a shackle around his leg to a ring drilled into the floor; it was this that had been digging into his stomach previously. Otherwise, Javert was unbound. Wryly, he wondered how much longer that would last. There was no sign of food or water.

Presently, a group of shadows moved somewhere close beyond the door, blocking the fragments of light spilling under the it.

"Go and see if he's awake yet. I swear, 'Parnasse, you hit him too hard."

Javert recognized the voice as belonging to Thenardiér, though he hadn't seen him in a long time. Montparnasse, he remembered, was the head of the Patron-Minette - it would be him to whom Thenardiér spoke.

"That was Brujon's fault, not mine," a younger voice hissed. "We had to make sure he was out. You keep your shirt on; he'll be rosy as sunshine before long. If he isn't, I'll stick him under water 'til he does wake up."

There was the sound of a key turning in a lock. Javert made a hasty judgement of the situation. If he feigned sleep, he'd only put off their attentions temporarily. Better instead to see immediately what the thugs were after. He stayed where he was, and so a surprised Montparnasse entered to see the Inspector sitting up and glaring at him from the other end of the cell.

"He's awake," the assassin called over his shoulder. Thenardiér pushed past him so that he stood before Javert, silhouetted in the sallow light.

"Good evening, _dear_ Inspector." Javert could not see the smile on Thenardiér's face, but he could hear his sadistic pleasure dripping from every word. "Or perhaps I should say 'good morning'; it is now just passed midnight."

Javert didn't answer, and Thenardiér didn't seem to expect him to. Instead, the old innkeeper crouched on his haunches so that he was eye to eye with the Inspector.

"I'm sure you have plenty of questions. I'm also quite sure that you consider it beneath you to ask them, so allow me to clear up a few things. I shall skip the introductions, as I do believe you already know who we are. This is my office, so to speak, on the Rue Monge. You went unfollowed by your friends in the police, so no one has the faintest idea where you are. Montparnasse, who you tracked here so diligently, was, of course, aware of you the whole time and deliberately made himself easy to follow. As for the 'why' of it all - I would be lying if I said this wasn't personal, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't in it for the money. All four of us have a score to settle with you, Monsieur, and if we can make ourselves bourgeoisie out of it, well, I certainly won't complain. In terms of 'what' we're going to do with you now..." Thenardiér resumed smiling in a sickeningly satisfied manner, and waved to Montparnasse, who turned on his heel and left the cell. "My associate has something of a letter to draft for me. After that, you and I will -"

What exactly they were going to do, Thenardiér never had a chance to expound upon. Javert, who had listened to this sewer rat with an expression of complete indifference moved faster than anyone, Thenardiér included, would have thought possible. Strong fingers used to wielding a wide array of weaponry closed tightly around Thenardiér's neck. Even as he choked the innkeeper to death, he maintained a sort of apathetic boredom. He certainly didn't expect to escape, but in his dismal view it was better to die fighting than to die without even trying.

Thenardiér could only manage a strangled sort of gurgling noise as he slowly turned blue. Though he clawed at Javert's hand, he was no match for the Inspector's strength, and his own was fading fast. He aimed a kick in Javert's direction; while he missed his target, his foot connected with the chain holding Javert to the floor, sending a rattling noise through the open door.

"'Ey boss, you starting already?" Babet's voice called from the outside room. "You dirty liar, you said I got first dibs on 'im!" Babet strode into the cell angrily, probably to give Thenardiér what-for himself, but when he saw the Inspector casually wringing the life from his employer, Babet did a double-take. "Brujon!" he yelled up the stairs. "Get down here, you great lump of meat! We have a situation on our hands!"

He dove into the fray, forcing Javert to loosen his hold on Thenardiér so as to fend off a new assailant. Brujon chose that instant to lumber into the room, peering dimly at the commotion. He walked up to the melee, grabbed Babet and Thenardiér by their collars, and ripped them out of the Inspector's reach. Immediately thereafter, he landed a heavy blow on the back of Javert's head with the Inspector's metal-capped cane. The thugs had confiscated it for their own use when first they caught him. Javert's eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Thenardiér staggered against the wall, panting heavily. "That man is a _devil_," he gasped. "Whose moronic idea was it to leave him without handcuffs?!"

Babet and Brujon pointed silently at each other.

Montparnasse reappeared, slightly miffed at having missed the action. "Do you want to look over our little letter before I deliver it?" He offered a sheet of yellowed parchment to Thenardiér, but the man, still coughing, waved his hand away.

"Just read it aloud - I'm in no mood to pick through your chicken-scratch."

Rolling his eyes, Montparnasse read the parchment's contents. By the time he had finished, Thenardiér was standing properly and had returned to the expression of a mangy cat pawing a mouse.

He said two words: "Send it."

Not long thereafter, a black shadow stole down the Rue Monge with a small letter held close to its breast.

Javert turned over in his forced sleep, as if aware of the consternation such a small note could bring come morning.


	14. Chapter 14

Valjean sat watching his candle burn itself out as the first watery rays of dawn pierced the window. Cosette's room looked no less sombre in the light of day; indeed, the glow of the sun, in dispelling nighttime fears, lent the room a feeling of sadness and abandonment. Sighing to himself, Valjean pinched out the flame he had so carefully guarded and rose.

This time, it was his own bedchamber he entered, looking to freshen up before walking downtown. Sometime near the eleventh hour, Valjean had made up his mind - he would go to Beaupré and tell him that he was going to find Javert. The officer could help him or not as he pleased. Valjean pulled a clean vest over his head and went to the nightstand, where a bowl of water rested.

Washing the weariness from his eyes, Valjean stared into a hand mirror, an old birthday gift from Cosette. His gaze landed on a small box sitting on the desk behind him. Valjean spun around and looked at it closely. It was Javert's last moving box, a small wooden crate that he had brought home with him yesterday morning. Tentatively, Valjean flipped open the lid and examined the contents. On the bottom were a few articles of clothing, folded in a military fashion. These were largely covered by an old letter, and on top of that rested a woman's hair comb and one of Javert's medals, the only one that he did not regularly pin to his uniform. Valjean slid the letter out from under the other items, handling the brittle yellow edges carefully.

_Monsieur the Commissaire Ringuette,_

_Please accept my apologies for not replying sooner. The weather has been bad, and I did not receive your letter until this week Monday. The boy I mentioned in my last correspondence continues to show the same promise I described to you. He is young - eleven or twelve - and is just the right size for the Académie. His temperament, too, appears ideal. He is serious, and unlike most street ruffians will go hungry before stealing. Indeed, I have never seen such strength of character in so young a child._

_In an effort to be totally honest, I would report the one misdemeanor I have ever observed on his part: two nights ago, having been given a bit of coin by a passing bourgeois, entered the local tavern and ordered a glass of ale. The lad had clearly never tasted alcohol before, and did not hold the liqueur well. Before long, I had to request that he leave or find a less respectable establishment in which to spend the evening. Even then, in his handicapped state, he apologized for his actions, and also said "It's my birthday, sir, and I was trying to forget about it. Some of the men were saying that alcohol could do that for me, but now I just feel worse". Rather telling, don't you think?_

_The boy calls himself Javert - if that is a first name or a surname, I cannot figure, and I don't think he knows either. In any event, I would personally recommend him for Académie training, though that is, as ever, your decision._

_Inspector Lavoie_

Valjean set the letter down slowly.

"Well," he murmured aloud, "That explains more than it doesn't." He tasted saltwater on his lips.

Then he shook himself from the melancholy spell. Gently slipping the letter back into the box, Valjean straightened and made for the door. He would go to Beaupré, and then to find Javert. He would not be stopped, dissuaded, or otherwise prevented from seeing it done, and now he had more motivation than ever to do so.

In the living room, Valjean drew the poker from its resting place by the fire and tucked it into his vest - no point in going anywhere unarmed. He threw the front door open and was about to leave when he spotted another letter, placed on the front stoop under a small rock. Curious, Valjean pulled the small piece of parchment out and read it. By the time he'd done so, his stomach felt like it had been replaced with a block of lead.

* * *

Once the door closed, Javert collapsed on the ground. He had walked straight-backed into the cell, forcing himself not to betray the slightest discomfort, but now that they weren't looking...

Trouble had started early that morning, when he'd wrenched himself from unconsciousness only to find his hands shackled tightly behind his back. He was thirsty, having had nothing to drink since the night before, but Thenardiér had not yet seen fit to grace his hostage with even a cup of some nasty, unwholesome draught, let alone clean water.

Not long thereafter, Thenardiér appeared, flanked by Babet and Brujon, who were, in spite of their argumentative nature when they worked together, inseparable.

"Strip him," Thenardiér ordered. Both thugs looked mildly discomfited.

"But Thenardiér," Babet said, "We'll have to unchain him to do that, unless of course you wants us to rip the fabric..."

"Hmm..." Thenardiér weighed the options, running some mental calculations across his fingers. "Yes, I suppose you'd better unchain him briefly. He's got a nice enough coat for one of us, no sense in ripping it."

"But boss," this time it was Brujon who spoke. "Did you forget about earlier? He's dangerous."

"Of course I didn't forget," Thenardiér snapped. "That's why I told you to do it. I don't care how violent he acts -" here, he shot a venomous look in Javert's direction "- he's not getting out of this with another little nap."

"Alright already, if you insist," Brujon muttered. He picked the Inspector up by the collar, spun him around backwards, and held him against the wall so that he couldn't move. With a small key, he unlocked the metal rings binding Javert's hands. The Inspector resisted the urge to make a break for freedom - he'd never get out the door, and it would only make matters worse. Brujon turned Javert back around.

"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "Don't even think about trying anything, or I'll break both your legs."

"A cell is only needed if the prisoner can still walk," Babet quipped.

Brujon tried to remove Javert's jacket, but the Inspector pushed him back.

"I can undress myself, thank you," he said coldly. Brujon backed down, and when Thenardiér did not correct him, Javert pulled off his uniform coat, folded it, and set it neatly on the floor, all the while staring his captors down defiantly.

"The shirt, too, if you please."

Javert wore nothing but a white collared shirt under the jacket, and this too he gently removed at Thenardiér's prompting. He crossed his arms and stood bare-chested before the sewer rats. Old scars criss-crossed his arms and shoulders, barely visible silver lines against his pale skin.

"Right, out here, you."

Thenardiér motioned to the door, and Javert walked through it. The room outside, thanks to the previous orchestrations of the Patron-Minette, was more or less an extension of the cell. Coming out behind him, Brujon roughly shoved Javert to the wall and locked his hands to metal cuffs protruding near shoulder-height from the stone.

Javert closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. They had come down to it, then - he would be tortured, and then he would die, and Jean Valjean would never know what happened to him.

Babet advanced, holding a coil of thin cowhide, and Thenardiér pulled over a stool from which to watch the proceedings.

"How many times," the innkeeper mused aloud, "have I been in almost precisely your position? How many days did I languish in a cell, anticipating the inevitable blows to be bestowed upon my person? And how many times -" he leaned toward Javert "- did I dream about this day?"

"If you're waiting for me to start begging for mercy, we're going to be sitting here for a long time," Javert informed him.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Thenardiér said quietly with the utmost seriousness. "It's no fun at all to break someone immediately. It's far more pleasurable to watch someone crack over days or weeks, trying desperately not to betray their terror and failing utterly." He snapped his fingers at Babet. "Begin."

"About time," Babet grumbled. Thenardiér shot him a look, but the thug had already unrolled the cowhide whip. "Good quality, this," he said, casually running a finger over the material. "It'll bite nice."

He flipped his wrist, cracking the air a few times, warming up to the instrument. Javert watched this, saying nothing and giving no sign of discomfiture. Then Babet pivoted slightly and with the slightest adjustment in motion snapped the whip against the Inspector's side.

Perhaps Javert clenched his fists a little tighter, but his countenance remained completely blank. Far from looking disappointed, Thenardiér actually seemed more excited, reveling in the opportunity to crush someone so resilient.

"Again," he commanded. "Same place."

Rolling his eyes, Babet cracked the whip a second time, hitting Javert in nearly the same spot. The thin pink mark that the first stroke had laid deepened into an angry red. Still, Javert did nothing but stare at Thenardiér with a passive-aggressive sort of loathing.

Thenardiér may have been getting a kick out of Javert's lack of reaction, but Babet seemed to take it personally. Shoving Thenardiér's chair over to the side, the thug stood directly in front of the Inspector and hit him across the chest with quite a bit more force; this time, the whip cut into Javert's skin like a knife. A thin bead of red leaked from the cut, dripping slowly onto the floor. The Inspector avoided flinching, but even Babet could tell that Javert's fingers were digging into his palms quite a bit harder than those of one not feeling pain.

"It hurts, don't it?" he sneered. "'Course, I got myself a couple o' beatings like that when I was in prison. You're real quiet now, but you can't hold out forever."

He flicked the cowhide again, catching the Inspector's other side and part of his shoulder. Then he spun around and hit him back in that first spot near his midriff; the skin, already smarting a bright scarlet, split and turned crimson.

Javert knew full well that staying limp was only provoking Babet further - if he gave any indication of the distress he was experiencing, he might get a reprieve. Or maybe not - the Patron-Minette was known for its expertise in cruelty, if nothing else. At any rate, he couldn't bring himself to give into the throbbing that accompanied each blow with the whip. He still had his pride, and at the rate things were going, that would soon be all he had left. Undoubtedly he would crack eventually, but that was no reason to accelerate the process.

As he had been thinking thus, Babet had redoubled his efforts, such that Javert was covered in marks and more than a little blood. Every whiplash burned, but he had found some yet-untapped reservoir of fortitude and stood his ground. Perhaps sensing this new-found resistance, Montparnasse, who had been watching from the far corner, stepped forward.

"Babet, leave it," he said.

The young assassin was cloaked head-to-foot in a long cape with a hood that shadowed his face. This he pulled back, revealing his youthful features; the visage was somehow more frightening than the cloaked figure, as it was a youth perverted by an obsession with death. His blue eyes were both calculating and hungry. Picking his way carefully across the rough stone floor, Montparnasse soon stood level with Thenardiér.

"A whip is good enough for the whelp who frightens easily, or the slave too useful to abide serious injury, but when dealing with a seasoned officer of the Law, other, more creative methods are required to make actual progress."

Thenardiér gestured to his employee in acquiescence. "Please, if you have such a 'creative method' in mind, by all means apply it. Just remember that we still need him alive for at least a few days."

Montparnasse brushed past Babet and stood within inches of the Inspector, so uncomfortably close that Javert got the impression that the man would have actually leaned on him if he hadn't been covered in blood.

"You see, Babet," Montparnasse said quietly, barely above a whisper. The others all leaned in to listen, but while he addressed Babet, Montparnasse's words were for Javert to hear. "A cowhide stings, and will slice the flesh if some degree of effort is applied, but it lacks the finesse of other instruments. A knife, for example -" Montparnasse slipped a thin blade from under his cloak. Its silver handle glinted with a wicked light in the dim room. The man balanced the weapon on a fingertip, examining it closely. "A knife can be slipped through the ribs, can cut muscle and bone, and is as poetic a device even as the Greek lyre. For is there a difference in the lyric skill of one who retells the ancient stories and one who wields gracefully the weighted blade? I think not."

Brujon scoffed. "You've been spending too much time in the theatre district, 'Parnasse. Talkin' all eloquent - he's gon' think you're a girl if you don't get on with it!"

"Shut up, my uncultured compatriot. A girl, you say? Well, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Javert understands all too well what I mean, because unlike you he is not a total imbecile."

Javert did indeed have a reasonably certain guess where this exchange was going, not that that was any comfort. Which, he figured, was probably exactly why Montparnasse had explained himself in his cryptic way - to allow the Inspector to stew in anxious anticipation.

As he'd expected, Montparnasse touched the tip of the blade to the Inspector's forearm.

"A whip just doesn't cut deeply enough," he murmured. Very deliberately, Montparnasse pressed down with the dagger, slicing neatly through skin and muscle. Dark red liquid welled up around the incision. Javert watched this in a sordid fascination, like one in a dream saying "This can't be happening".

Montparnasse frowned slightly. If he had been expecting him to cry out, or flinch, or even just shiver under the steel's touch, he was disappointed. The thug dragged the knife downward, almost from wrist to elbow, leaving a jagged wound in its wake that bled profusely.

"Enough," Thenardiér said suddenly. "He hasn't ate or drank in a day and a half - if he looses much more blood he'll pass out, and I want him awake for later. 'Parnasse!"

Montparnasse faced his employer, leaving the metal embedded in flesh. "Yes?"

"Go see how the recipient of our little letter is faring. And don't let him see you."

"Naturally." Montparnasse turned back to the Inspector, pulling the knife from his arm. The boy, who enjoyed violence overmuch, glanced from his weapon to Javert and drew the edge of the blade along his tongue, licking the blood off. Javert raised his eyes to the heavens in disgust. Montparnasse winked knowingly at him, then slipped through the second door in the room, the one that didn't go to the cell.

"That little creep," Brujon muttered.

"For once, I agree with you," Thenardiér said calmly. "And while that was an amusing little display, it really didn't have the desired effect. Ah well, I suppose it's my turn next. I'll need tonight at least to prepare. In the meantime, escort the dear Inspector to his suite for the evening, and get him some water."

"Pardon me," Javert said, his voice hoarse, "but are you going to give me bandages as well, or are you expecting that I bleed on the floor all evening?"

Standing, Thenardiér gave him a sarcastic bow.

"Of course! Nothing is too good for our honored guest. Babet, see that he gets a formal dinner while you're at it." Chuckling, the innkeeper left by the same door as Montparnasse.

After a moment, Brujon unlatched the cuffs holding the Inspector to the wall.

"Come on then," he grunted, propelling the Inspector back toward the smaller room. Babet opened the door, through which Javert walked without complaint. Pivoting before they shut him in, Javert caught a glance of the far wall - it was stained with red.

As the door closed and locked behind him, Javert fell to the floor, and there he had lay for nigh on an hour, unmoving, trying not to think about anything at all. Everything hurt, most especially his arm. The wound had started to close, but he had the horrible suspicion that without stitches and a miracle, it wouldn't heal properly.

At one point, as Javert was counting bricks in the wall to distract himself, Babet opened the door wide enough to kick in a wooden bowl of water. It almost certainly wasn't clean, but the Inspector was scarcely concerned about that. He drank several swallows and rinsed as much grime off of himself as he could.

Feeling slightly better, Javert dragged himself to the corner where his clothes sat folded from earlier. He ripped a strip of cloth from the white shirt and tied his arm up. It was a clumsy bandage, but better than nothing. He pulled his jacket over himself as a blanket and tried to get some rest. He had the feeling he would need it.


	15. Chapter 15

His hands shook as he reread the words, praying he had misunderstood, but knowing he hadn't.

_Monsieur Jean Valjean,_

_The last time we met, our discourse turned regrettably violent; in writing to you today, I am hoping to prevent such a misunderstanding._

_In the midst of our previous meeting, prior to engaging in hostilities, we were discussing the sale of a painting. You thought it worthless, hence the point of our contention. Today, I have a different offer for you, and I trust you will find it of much greater value._

_It has come to my attention that you are rather good friends with a certain police Inspector. I believe you know of whom I write. Most unexpectedly, he fell into our care after a small mishap yesterday afternoon. If you are interested in seeing his safe return, you would do well to bring a sum of 600,000 francs to Warehouse Seven on the river within three days. If this money is not received in a timely fashion, I regret to inform you that Monsieur the Inspector's safety might be dangerously compromised._

_Do not even consider going to the police over this; your above opportunity to ransom the Inspector's life will be immediately void if you do so, and the consequences for him would be most unpleasant._

_With the utmost sincerity,_

_Thenardiér_

_P.S. You may recall an incident from that same evening involving a very hot piece of metal - I recommend a speedy delivery of the appropriate number of francs, lest my associates think to see that Inspector Javert receives the same treatment._

The ransom note crumpled into a tight ball in Valjean's fist; he fell heavily against the doorway.

Hope is a fickle creature, a seductive opiate that thrills the mind and dulls the senses. Jean Valjean had danced more than a few dances with the lady Hope, and all - numerous escape attempts from the galleys, being put on parole, being made Monsieur the Mayor - had inevitably ended badly.

Determination was a different feeling altogether, one of power and speed, of adrenaline and action. In a determined man, blood pounded in the ears, and one felt able to take on the world in a cacophony of sound and fury.

And then there was despair. Despair was suffocating while breathing, drowning, immobilized in a grey fog. If hope dulls the senses and thrills the mind, despair numbs the mind while toying with the senses such that daylight burns, night blinds, and all sound dissolves into melancholy silence.

In the past twenty-four hours, Valjean had met with the first two of these phantoms, and now the third was closing its graceful fingers around his neck. Javert was taken prisoner, being held God-knows-where by a conglomerate of fiends who would like nothing better than to see him skewered on the point of his own sword. The money wasn't an issue - Jean Valjean was a wealthy man, and even though 600,000 francs was most of his bank account, he would gladly give up more than that to see Javert safe. The question, though, was whether Thenardiér could be trusted - he had no proof that the Inspector was even still alive. If he brought the money and the Inspector was dead... Jean Valjean had never been inclined towards suicide. It went against everything he believed in. Somehow though, supporting himself on the door frame, he found suddenly that he could better empathize with Javert's reasons for jumping into the Seine. It would be so much more comfortable to be free of worry and pain.

Jean Valjean, however, was not accustomed to doing the "easy" thing, and knew better than to think that death was an escape. What if Javert were still alive? He couldn't live with himself if Thenardiér wasn't lying, if Javert had not yet been done in, and he failed to help him.

And what of the money? If he handed the vast sum over to Thenardiér and the Patron-Minette, they would be able to pay their way out of Paris and escape the justice they deserved for murder. Was it right to give in to the demands? Did it matter? He was back where he started - he couldn't let the Inspector be harmed, but he didn't know how best to go about helping him.

Life is such that at those moments where we know we must act, we find ourselves paralyzed, unable to make a decision. As these thoughts tumbled through Valjean's weary mind, he found himself leaning more and more heavily in the door, getting no closer to moving or to choosing a course of action. The mid morning sun fell across the wisteria vines, laden heavily with dangling purple flowers. They were Cosette's favorite.

The thought of his daughter, happily married to Marius, brought him first to another degree of despair, then lightened his heart. Perhaps Cosette would know what to do. She had always been precocious, with a quick mind and gentle wit. He would forgo his trip to see Beaupré to see Cosette instead. Thus settled, Valjean hurried down to the end of the Rue Coquille, where he was able to hire a fiacre to drive him to the other end of the city.

The Rue des Filles du Calvaire was a fine street, in the best part of Paris. The grand houses were set on a wide boulevard lined with trees and gardens. Number Six was no less fine than the others, with sweeping arches and high glass windows, framed with the finest silk draperies in the city. Monsieur Gillenormand had grown up amid luxury, and his tastes showed as much. When Valjean pulled the bell at the front of the house, a porter soon appeared; the same, in fact, whom had received Valjean the night he returned Marius. Valjean, however, had looked quite different at the time, having just crawled through the sewers carrying a near-dead body, and the night had been dark.

As it was, no-one in the household recognized him as the man who brought the young Baron back from the barricades. The boy, being of good and humble heart, considered Valjean a saint among men for giving him Cosette, and extended invitations for dinner at every opportunity, but more often than not, Valjean refused politely. He felt himself an intruder on the young couple's happiness. Today, however, he was willing to make an exception.

The porter led him into a spacious living room, with a marble fireplace and exotic carpets.

"Monsieur," the porter addressed him, "If you will wait here but a moment, I will announce your arrival to the Baron and Baroness."

"I will wait," Valjean replied simply.

Moments later, the sparkling laugh of Cosette echoed down the hallway.

"Papa's here?!" she exclaimed. "What a delightful surprise! Tell Toussaint to set an extra place for dinner!" Toussaint, previously employed by Valjean as a maid, had transferred to the Gillenormand estate not long after the wedding.

Slippered feet came pattering down the hall, and Cosette entered, as radiant as the sun with the voice of a Lark. In spite of his anxiety, Valjean's face split in a wide grin.

"Bonjour, Madame," he smiled, embracing her lightly. Cosette kissed her father's cheek.

"Look at this dress, Papa! Marius bought it for me. Apparently, it's the latest fashion. He says I wear it better than all the ladies in Paris."

The dress was the color of fresh cream, adorned with delicate floral embroidery and minute beads that glittered in the light.

"It's beautiful," Valjean told her. "You are too good for this old man."

"She is too good for any man!" Marius proclaimed, entering through the door behind them. "The lady deserves a Queendom, and nothing less."

"But what an unhappy queen I should be without you beside me!" Cosette cried.

Cupping her hand gently in his own, Marius tenderly kissed Cosette's wrist. Turning to Valjean, he smiled. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Monsieur?"

Cosette batted teasingly at his arm. "Oh come, Marius - does a father need a reason to visit his daughter? You don't visit enough as it is," she added, linking arms with her father. "Come, sit and talk! I've missed you dearly."

The girl pulled both gentlemen to the sofa, sitting with Marius on one side and Jean Valjean on the other. For a long time, they just talked. Valjean could refuse his daughter nothing, but now the desire to please her was at odds with his reason for coming. As the hours passed, and time slipped by, he grew progressively more melancholy at heart, though he smiled and laughed at Cosette's happy chatter.

She talked about many things - the flowers she was tending in the garden despite the gardener's opinion that it was improper, the cat they were thinking about adopting, the room they had set aside for the children they would have one day - and sometimes Marius would throw in his thoughts also. Mostly, though, both men watched the woman they loved in their own way, delighting to hear her voice, Marius without another care in the world, and Valjean with too many cares to number.

When Toussaint called for their late dinner, all three were only too happy to oblige. Marius had been up since dawn writing, and his light breakfast had long since worked itself off. Cosette was eager to share their hospitality with her father, and Valjean was hopeful that the interruption would allow him to say, finally, why he had come.

The dinner was expertly prepared - a beef roast with a crisp tossed salad on the side, and a bowl of fresh seasonal fruits for a taste of summer. Valjean ate gratefully, for in his worry it was the first meal he'd eaten all day. Now, though, as the atmosphere quieted, Valjean found it quite as hard as before to bring up the matter of Javert - after all, Cosette scarcely knew the man existed, only that he was a friend of her father's, and nothing more. She had been more than a little surprised when she paid the Rue Plumet a visit the morning after the trouble at the Seine, only to find a total stranger passed out on the couch. Further, Valjean had never told her about his experience with the Patron-Minette, or with Thenardiér. As he sat mulling this over, he found that asking Cosette for her advice would take an awful lot of explaining on his part, and mostly the explaining of things that would horrify his daughter. Valjean sighed quietly aloud, realizing the whole afternoon had been a mistake.

Cosette was too perceptive, however, to not notice her father's distress. She sighed too, and said "Papa, you looked so upset when you got here this morning that I just had to cheer you up. Now it's near evening, and even though you smile and laugh, it doesn't reach your eyes. Pray tell - what on Earth is the matter?"

Valjean grimaced slightly. Part of the problem with raising children to be sensitive to the needs of others is that they tend to pick up on one's own problems as well.

"I can't hide anything from you, can I? Well... It is... a _difficult_ position to explain, at best," he said regretfully. Marius leaned forward over his plate, listening in on the conversation intently. Valjean angled his chair to include his son-in-law. "You recall that the police Inspector, Javert, brought you home after the fight at the barricades?"

Valjean's explanation of that night was full of half-truths; to the best of Marius' knowledge, Javert had come across the boy's body once the fighting was over, and, finding the lad's address in his pocketbook, had seen him safely home. Javert understood Valjean's desire to avoid mention of his own involvement in the conflict, and so stuck to the story, but as was his way was uninterested in any sort of thanks for his "help". Other than according the boy a bit more cordiality than he did most of Paris, the Inspector never pressed himself on their company, and thus it was that both children had seen very little of the man.

Marius was utterly convinced of Valjean's version of the night on the barricade, though we have seen it to be at best a well-intentioned fiction, as the injuries he received that night had blacked most of the night's events from his memory. He could, however, dimly recall the stern face of Javert presenting his near-dead body to the servants. He did not place the other man in his memory as Valjean.

Marius nodded by way of reply.

"And," Valjean next addressed Cosette. "You recall that the Inspector has been staying at my house of late? I believe you ran into us there, once."

"Yes," Cosette affirmed. "You had just pulled him out of the river, the poor dear."

Cosette's information on that incident was limited, much like Marius' in regard to the barricade. Valjean despised lying, but trying to explain that the man had jumped of his own accord would have led to yet more difficult questions.

"Is something the matter with him?"

"That's exactly the issue," Valjean suspired. "He has, effectually, disappeared."

"My goodness!" Cosette cried. "Without a word? That seems a most ungrateful way to repay your kindness to him these many weeks!"

Valjean was on the verge of interrupting her when Marius beat him to it.

"I think," he said, "that Monsieur is suggesting that the Inspector did not disappear of his own free will. Is that a correct judgement, sir?"

The older man nodded in painful confirmation; the room seemed suddenly all too quiet.

"Oh dear," Cosette murmured. "And here you've been letting us talk you silly for hours! Come papa, you ought to have told us right away! Have you gone to the police with your suspicions?"

"They already know," he told her wearily. "Or rather, Officer Beaupré is aware that he is missing. However, he does not yet know of the most recent development. It would appear that a dangerous group of scoundrels orchestrated this disappearance - this morning, I encountered a note on the front step demanding a considerable sum of money in exchange for his release."

Marius immediately went off on conjectures about giving Valjean money to meet the demands; it was the least he could do for the man who had saved him, and etcetera, but Valjean held up a hand to still the excited boy.

"It is not the money that is of concern to me. I have plenty; more than I could ever use reasonably, even if I wished to. But I have no guarantee that Javert - that the Inspector is safe, much less whether or not he still lives." Valjean's voice broke on the last words, but the other two scarcely noticed.

"You oughtn't give into their requests, Monsieur," Marius told him firmly. "It only encourages such behavior. Besides, when I was studying law, the professors always said that -"

"But we can't not save him!" Cosette seemed positively horrified by the thought.

"That's not what I meant," Marius reassured her. "To think, I ignore such a matter, after the dear Inspector dragged me home to you? Ridiculous. But ransoms make for a dangerous game. We must think of another course of action."

Valjean was inclined to agree with Marius for once, but was alarmed by how quickly his "I" had turned into "we".

"I'm the one who'll be doing any and all saving here; neither of you are coming along for the ride. It's not that I doubt your abilities," he added, stilling another onslaught of indignation, mostly from Marius, "but I don't want to see you hurt. Either of you," he emphasized. "I am open to suggestions on how best to go about this, however."

"I take it you don't know where these thugs are holding him?" Marius asked, adopting the serious tone that Enjolras sometimes bore during strategy meetings at the ABC Café.

"Certainly not. If I had even the vaguest idea, I wouldn't be sitting here talking about it. The note recommended dropping the money off at Warehouse Seven, but I do not believe these criminals are foolish enough to be keeping the Inspector in the same building."

"Indeed."

The men talked for some time, as the sky faded into deeper evening. At one point, Toussaint came in with coffee and fine biscuits, which all partook in, though Valjean scarcely noticed what he was eating. All the talk was going nowhere, and the bubble of despair was once more forcing its way through his chest. Visions of horrible weapons and Javert in pain flitted through his distressed mind, and the increasing fruitless discussion was only adding to his consternation. The propositions were all unlikely, and were becoming progressively more so; neither Marius nor Valjean really had a clear idea of what was best, and it was beginning to show. Both were agitated by the lack of progress, which in that subtle inexplicable way of concern and adrenaline caused each to only throw out and analyze an even-more impossible suggestion.

In all this, one might suspect that Cosette had been left out of the proceedings; it was true that she had much less experience in matters of intrigue and violence than either her husband or her father, and yet her intelligence was not the less for it; perhaps it even put her at an advantage, for she was able to see through the quagmire of plot the men had mired themselves in and arrived eventually at a sensible solution to the matter.

"Why don't you just demand for some proof that he's alive first?" Cosette asked, breaking up a tangent on the pros and cons of involving the police in the affair.

"I'm sorry?" Valjean was taken aback.

"Why don't you make them prove that they haven't hurt the Inspector before you worry about handing over the ransom or otherwise rescuing him?"

Comprehension dawned slowly on Marius' youthful features.

"Cosette, my love, your talent knows no bounds! Such an obvious solution, it's been staring us in the face this entire time!"

"Quite so..." Valjean mused. "But how to make them do it? Have you an answer to that as well, dear one?"

"Well..." Cosette chewed on her lip; that part she hadn't figured out yet, but once again it seemed simple enough. "They sent you a letter, didn't they? And they told you not to go to the police, so evidently you're being watched. Why not just put a letter of your own where the kidnappers left theirs? Demand some hard evidence of the poor Inspector's condition."

Marius jumped to his feet in excitement. "Excellent! They won't hurt their hostage if they want money, and if they already have, they shan't see a sous and will pay through the nose themselves instead."

"I will write the letter," Valjean told them firmly. "And I will do my best to keep you informed."

"Don't do anything silly when they reply, papa. Please, promise you won't!"

Valjean looked in his daughter's eyes and sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

"I will try," he told her. "But I will not make promises I cannot keep."

Around the same time, having just finished messing with Javert for the evening, Thenardiér sent Montparnasse to investigate Valjean's doings. When he dropped down into the front yard, he discovered a letter under a rock on the step, where he had left his own sheet earlier. Montparnasse frowned. Was it possible that Valjean had not even gotten the ransom note? But no, this was a lighter parchment than what Thenardiér had had him use. Picking it up, Montparnasse scanned the contents quickly. Then, growling to himself, the ruffian crushed the paper in his fist, much as Valjean had done himself that morning. Thenardiér would not be happy about this - not happy at all.


	16. Chapter 16

Javert woke in the same darkness he had gone to rest in. The blackness was a comfort, if only because it meant that Thenardiér had not yet sent for him. What the innkeeper had planned next, the Inspector shuddered to think, but the worst of it was that a criminal had gotten the better of him - again.

Only, unlike Valjean, this man was cruelty personified; he was a criminal to the core, and Javert knew for a fact that men like that could never change. Yes, Thenardiér had gotten the better of him, had set up what was in reality an obvious trap, and Javert, like a child, had stumbled right into it. He had had little time in the last day and a half to reflect on the details of the situation, but now, alone in the darkness, he found himself faced with a whirlpool of dark thoughts he had no means to contend with.

Whether from weariness, or blood loss, or even some nightmarish daydream, Javert could not have said, but he found himself suddenly faced with a vision of himself as he had been in times gone by - a fierce, commanding presence before whom even the brave quaked with fear. _Thenardiér would never have captured me so_, the figment seemed to mock. _What has happened to the great Inspector that he falls so easily for the stunts of lesser men?_

This Javert could not answer, nor could he stop an image of Valjean working in the garden of the Rue Plumet from spreading across his haunted consciousness, like ink on dark water.

_Ah yes, that's right_, the old Javert laughed. _You went and fell 'in love' - with a convict, no less!_

Without realizing it, Javert clapped his hands over his ears, but that did little to muffle the voice inside his head, a voice he had been suppressing since the Seine.

_He's abandoned you, you know_, the voice murmured treacherously. _You said yourself - men cannot change their natures. He is free of you forever - he will not appear again with his thrice-accursed mercy to save you from these men. He won't have you always at his shoulder, ensuring that he minds the Law as he claims he does. Perhaps he even helped orchestrate this kidnapping scheme - you know well enough that he'd met with the Patron-Minette before, he said so the day before last._

Javert gasped aloud - this figment of himself had hit a nerve. So that was it, then. He had been played for a fool. Valjean had lied - everything he'd ever said about "love" was a perversion of the word. He didn't want to believe it, but even that in and of itself was a reason to think this terrible hunch true - Javert had never lived a life based on what he wanted to believe.

In the dark, in both senses of the phrase, the Inspector sat alone, trying desperately not to care and finding that he did. He attempted to convince himself that it was good Valjean had not tried to rescue him - his meddling would only have got them both hurt. Even so, that nagging voice reminded him that unlooked-for kindness was the culmination of Valjean's character; that it was lacking now was a bad omen. Javert felt the first stirrings in his heart of the untouchable stone that until recently had made him the scourge of Parisian police spies. This self doubt was permitting old ways of thinking to reassert themselves, most notably an absolute and irrevocable loathing for those with a criminal nature.

The Inspector's hand brushed against something only slightly less hard than a rock on the floor beside him. While he slept, someone, probably Babet, had tossed part of a stale bread loaf into the cell next to him. Javert bitterly regretted drinking all the water he had been provided, for now he was thirstier than ever and had nothing to wash the bread down with, but his stomach, which until moments ago had been in a state of uneasy hibernation, now woke with a ravenous hunger and demanded bread. It was dry and harsh on the tongue, and it was probably just as well that Javert couldn't see more than the vague outline of the loaf in the near-blackness, but he hadn't eaten for 48 hours, such that even this most abominable of table scraps tasted better than any meal he'd had in better days.

_Except when Jean cooked for you_, a part of him said stubbornly. _You were weak to let him_, the other half replied, equally stubborn. Javert groaned. These mental tennis matches were the worst sort of strain, and on top of what Thenardiér was doing to him, he felt literally torn in two. Was it justice to love Valjean? The man was a convict, the scum scraped from a galley ship and dumped on top of respectable society. For that, he deserved disdain, dislike, and certainly not love. Then he'd had to go and save Javert's life, and was even absolved of his past offenses by the Commissaire - did that make it just to love him?

There was also the matter of Javert himself - unfeeling, unkind, merciless - did he deserve to love and be loved by Valjean, who was the antithesis of all these things? The man had given Javert everything, unconditionally, but Javert had scarcely given him anything in return. That was neither right, nor was it just. He had slept with someone so much his opposite that the differences couldn't be more pronounced, he had abased every moral he'd ever held to be true, and he had been weak. He'd had two choices - love or the Law, and he'd taken the easier path. He hadn't wanted to arrest Valjean, so he didn't. Out of all these things, the fact that he'd chosen Valjean over justice bothered him least, and that in and of itself was concerning.

The past month of happiness had been a dream, a beautiful lie, a breath of joy in a story of misery, and the events of the past few days had shattered the illusion like glass. The Inspector no longer knew what to think about anything.

He'd finished the bread off before he had time to realize it. It may have been for the better - if he had eaten more and threw up, it would have been so much the worse for him. He was considering going back to sleep when the light under the door grew brighter, like someone had just laid more logs in the outer room's stove. Quiet voices argued back and forth for a few moments; Javert pulled his jacket on, careful of where he'd messily bandaged his arm. There was the sound of a key scraping a lock and the door opened, the light blinding him momentarily. Montparnasse stood outside and gestured to a table that had been set in the middle of the other room. They would not drag him to whatever ordeal they had in mind - Javert stood stiffly and walked, sitting in the chair the man indicated. Thenardiér stood to the side, scowling, as Montparnasse cuffed the Inspector's legs and one hand to the seat. To Javert's surprise, that was all he did.

In order to make sense of the events that follow, it is necessary to explain what precisely had occurred in front of the Rue Plumet the previous evening. Montparnasse had been visibly displeased by what he found in Valjean's reply to the ransom notice, and upon returning to the Rue Monge had read the paper aloud to Thenardiér, who afterward looked even less excited about its contents than Montparnasse had. The letter read something to this effect:

_Thenardiér,_

_You will forgive me if I sound somewhat terse in my reply to your most enlightening letter. I admit, I am more interested in your current proposition than that silly painting you tried to con me with all those years ago. As it would happen, I am pleased to pay what you ask provided that a few conditions are first met:_

_1. You will prove to me in some way that Javert is still alive. If you like, you could have him write me a letter of his own - however, I am aware of your skill in forgery, so the letter must contain some piece of information that only Javert could know, or I will not accept it as valid._

_2. You will give me another day to get the money. It is a bit of a drive to my bank._

_3. When we meet at the Warehouse to make the exchange, I will see Javert before I give you or your associates the money._

_Send your reply the way you have been - your assassin is most adept at climbing walls._

_With equal sincerity,_

_JVJ_

Thenardiér was in a fix - Valjean, once again, was proving a worthy opponent. The innkeeper hadn't been planning to clue Javert in to the fact that his kidnapping scheme involved Valjean, but in order to meet the man's demands, he didn't see how it could be reasonably avoided.

Nor did he see how he could refuse to comply; if he simply threatened Javert's life again without offering evidence that the Inspector was even alive in the first place, Valjean would not bring the money - the innkeeper could get his revenge on Javert, but he'd still be totally bankrupt. As he considered the dilemma, however, Thenardiér began to feel more secure - he could perhaps even use this to his advantage. Thus, Javert had been procured - he would write Valjean's blasted letter, and then they could move on with business.

Montparnasse wordlessly set a sheet of paper, a pen, and an inkwell on the table. Javert looked impassively from these to his captors.

"What - am I writing things for you now? Oh the horror."

Thenardiér smiled through his teeth.

"Yes, you are. You're going to write one little letter, and then you and I can chat properly."

Javert regarded him through half-lidded eyes.

"Who, may I inquire, am I writing to?"

"Jean Valjean."

Javert felt the breath stolen from his lungs.

"And why," he asked, barely keeping his voice from shaking, "am I writing to him?"

"Well, Inspector, let me tell you a story by way of explanation - I'll fill in some gaps in your knowledge for you." Thenardiér stepped forward and leaned on the table, just out of easy reach. "A few years back, I was living under the name Jondrette in an unfortunate little establishment called the Gorbeau House."

"I'm aware of that," Javert growled.

"But you aren't aware of what exactly happened that fateful evening you apprehended us. Earlier that same day, I had come across Valjean pouring gifts on the brats of Paris - the poor, gamins of all natures, ladies of ill repute, all while asking nothing in return. He was a prospector's dream. Naturally, I invited him to the Gorbeau place, so that he might lend his philanthropy to my 'dying' wife and children -"

"While you set up arrangements with the Patron-Minette," Javert finished. Pieces of fragments of understanding were falling into place, but the full picture was still blurred beyond recognition.

"You pick things up quickly. When Monsieur arrived, I offered him a painting in exchange for a few thousand francs, nothing unreasonable, but he refused."

"Was that the part where you chained him to the floor without checking his hands for the prison file he was hiding?" Javert smiled grimly, for the Patron-Minette had not made the same mistake twice; all of his pockets had been thoroughly searched when he was first unconscious.

Thenardiér glared at him, not dignifying that with an answer. "Then, somehow, you found out about it and showed up to arrest everyone. When we turned around, Valjean had escaped."

"This is fascinating, of course, but why exactly are you having me write to Valjean _now_?" Though not especially excited about the prospect, his instincts honed by years of spy work were telling him that something else was going on, something Thenardiér hadn't deigned to tell him yet.

Thenardiér gave the Inspector a grim smile of his own.

"I think Valjean finds you far more valuable than a little oil painting, don't you?"

For a long moment, Javert didn't even breathe. This small revelation was the pebble that started the avalanche. Suddenly, everything fell into place - the letter Thenardiér kept discussing with Montparnasse was clearly some sort of ransom demand. Valjean didn't try to rescue him either because he still didn't know the Inspector was being held on the Rue Monge, or because Thenardiér had made some preventative unpleasant threat on Javert's person - probably both. And everything, all the murders, his own abduction, had been a twisted ploy to extort money from Valjean.

"I see. So as you told me, you're in it for the money."

"Of course."

"And Valjean demanded evidence that I'm alive before he'd give you whatever obscene sum you asked for?"

"That would be the general idea. Write him a note, and make sure it's 'personal' - Valjean specified that." Thenardiér stepped back from the table and sat in a chair to the side.

"So he manages to bend even you to his will, like a dog." Javert murmured it quietly, but Thenardiér still heard him. The sewer rat gave him a look that very clearly said he would pay for it later, but Javert couldn't have cared less at that moment.

The Inspector picked up the pen tentatively.

"What if I refuse to write anything?"

"Then…" Thenardiér said slowly, "we move on to part two of the afternoon without interlude, and Valjean thinks we've already killed you, in which case, he might do something extreme. We wouldn't get our money that way, but it would be entertaining nevertheless."

Javert's thoughts went immediately to the Seine, and he licked his lips nervously.

"Fine."

Javert deliberately dipped the pen in the ink and started writing.

_Jean,_

_I cannot say where I am being imprisoned, as Thenardiér will doubtless read this before he sends it. My treatment could be better, but I suppose it still has nothing on what was done to you at Toulon._

_You wanted proof that I live - here it is: more likely than not, you have already gone through my final moving box - it seems the sort of sentimental thing you would do - and no need to blush about it either; your cheeks turn pink when you've been found out, you know - but if for some reason you haven't, do so. There is a hair comb in the box made out of mother of pearl, with little pearls set in the edge. It belonged to my mother; the prison ward gave it to me when she died. It was probably the only nice thing she ever owned._

_I do not think it is right _or_ just to ransom my life the way you seem to be doing, but I also know that you would never consider leaving me here, either, though you should. One way or another, I suppose I will see you soon._

_Javert._

"There. Satisfied?"

Thenardiér read the sheet over silently. "It will do. 'Parnasse! I think you know the drill by now." He handed the other man the letter.

"I'm getting tired of climbing into this guy's garden. The house is so boring."

"Which is why we can't just appropriate his money in the usual way - he doesn't keep it at the house. Now get going."

Still muttering about being under-appreciated, Montparnasse exited through Thenardiér's office and the back door. Javert, facing the other direction, could see none of this. He could, however, see Thenardiér slide his chair back towards the table. Javert regarded him warily.

"Where are your other henchmen, then? Out grocery shopping?"

"Babet and Brujon had some business of their own to attend to today, some little side scheme for their own invention. Nothing of consequence, I'm sure," Thenardiér replied.

Then the man leaped forward in a manic burst of energy, pinning Javert's free hand to the chair and cuffing it in place before the Inspector recovered from his initial shock.

"Can't have you turning violent on me, you see," Thenardiér explained, brushing his hands off on his dirty trousers.

"Because violence is such an unusual trait here," Javert replied, sarcastic to the last.

Thenardiér only smiled. The sight sent a shiver down the Inspector's spine; he had seen that look before, on the faces of officers who were little better than the scum they were guarding, officers who loved nothing better than the pain of others. That such an expression was directed at him was perhaps the most unnerving thing that had happened thus far.

Very deliberately, Thenardiér ambled toward the stove in the corner of the room. Donning a heavy mitt, Thenardiér flipped open the door on the stove-front and withdrew a heavy piece of metal that had been resting atop the bed of coals. The iron glowed with a dull red color. The man examined it with an air of deep interest.

"You see, Inspector," he said, placing a quiet emphasis on each word, "I am not a hard man to please. I like money, and I really like making money at other people's expense. I set this up to blackmail Valjean, certainly, but I have a score to settle with both of you. Thanks to the message you just wrote, Valjean will bring me my money, but he won't get you in return. I'm still going to kill you. Maybe I'll kill Valjean too; I haven't decided yet. In the meantime, I require amusement."

Javert felt a sort of mist fall over his eyes; the world went out of focus as his brilliant mind categorized all the numerous ways in which he had just behaved like a complete idiot. Because he'd demonstrated he was lively enough to write a letter, Valjean would still get robbed, Javert would still die, and Valjean would still do something foolish if Thenardiér didn't kill him first. It was obvious and yet not obvious. How could he have let himself forget Thenardiér's passion for vengeance? Shock, he decided. The reaffirmation that Jean Valjean was as innocent as ever. The final silencing of that other half to his personality. Javert looked up at Thenardiér with an expression so full of abject hatred that the innkeeper actually took a step backwards.

Then Thenardiér laughed. "You have a strong constitution, Inspector. But I will break you. You will scream. And that is all there is to that."

He advanced, brandishing the burning metal. Javert felt blissfully removed from the scene; his eyes closed, and a memory surfaced from almost thirty years ago - a convict, number 24601, chained to a post as a much younger Javert approached, carrying the prison brand. Now the wheel had turned again, only unlike Jean at the barricade, Thenardiér wouldn't drop the weapon and let the Inspector go.

_Oh God, Jean. What have we done?_ Javert asked silently. Hopelessly lost in a barrage of splintered thoughts, he scarcely noticed when Thenardiér pushed up the sleeve of his jacket.

But when Thenardiér laid the fiery metal to his skin, Javert was jerked firmly into the present. For a split second, he hardly felt anything as his body tried to make sense of what had happened. Then the scent of burning flesh accosted his nostrils, and all at once the most agonizing pain shot up his forearm. Javert was accustomed to being hurt; it came with the uniform. But he hadn't spent nineteen years as a slave in Toulon, either; he could resist pain, but not in the same way Valjean could. His pride shattered like his personal delusions, and Javert screamed.


	17. Chapter 17

The most recent letter lay unassumingly on the desk. Valjean sat across the room on the foot of the bed, gazing into space. The sunlight cast ethereal shadows on the floor as it streamed over the dust motes suspended in midair. In the silence of the room, little things began standing out - the curl of the peeling wall paper, spots in the corner where the whitewash was fading. He fingered a small woman's hair comb laying on his knee absently. Then he stood and walked slowly downstairs and out to the gate. The whole time, he looked neither left nor right, just peering resolutely at the ground. At the gate, his manner only changed subtly. He walked more quickly to the corner of the Rue Coquille and hailed a passing fiacre.

"Montreuil-sur-Mer, please," Valjean requested.

"You know that's a full day and a half's ride from here, right Monsieur?" the carriage driver asked.

Valjean just handed him three gold napoleons and climbed in the back. Without another word, the fiacre trotted off.

A young man with dark hair, a cloak, and a top hat stood on the corner reading a newspaper. Valjean hadn't paid the boy any mind, but the man's dark eyes had followed Valjean's every move. Satisfied that he knew where Jean Valjean was going and why, the dandy turned and walked in the direction of the Rue Monge.

Valjean felt every bump in the road as the vehicle vibrated beneath him. Without even realizing it, he sighed, yet unsure of the path he had chosen. There was a difference, he determined, between giving money freely to the poor, not all of whom were the most honest of people, and being forced to hand his fortune over to a group of extortionist criminals.

As yet though, he couldn't see a better solution to the problem; Javert was clearly still alive, but soon wouldn't be if Thenardiér didn't get what he wanted. Valjean didn't doubt that the innkeeper would carry out his threat - he had more than enough reasons to want the Inspector dead.

The thought of Javert's precise, cursive script filled him with tremors, though whether they were born of joy or abject terror he could not have said. It would be one thing to get the news that the Inspector had been killed. It was a mind-numbing prospect, but it was predictable and had a finality to it that prevented further worry - when the one you love is dead, what more is there to be concerned over?

But Javert was alive, and that was both a wonderful and terrible thing. Valjean frowned - the Inspector had written that his treatment "could be better", but he hadn't elaborated any further, and Valjean didn't know what that might imply. On the one hand, Javert was stalwart enough to claim he was fine when he was an inch from death, but on the other, he was apparently well enough that he could hold a pen to paper.

His signature was by itself a source of solace, almost more so than the bit about his mother's hair comb. The way he'd finished it - "Javert." - with a period - was so like the Inspector that it nearly took his breath away. It was how he always signed letters, though Javert sometimes also added his title. The small dot created order, control, and a blank statement of fact. Valjean could almost see Javert's small, sarcastic smile - _Yes, you fool, here I am, they couldn't get rid of me that easily_, it seemed to say. Strange how he'd come to know the Inspector's little mannerisms so well.

It would be worse, much worse, now that he knew his friend and companion still lived, if something went wrong in the negotiations and he lost him again. Valjean was far too familiar with having his hopes crushed; he would not accept failure this time.

He would go to Montreuil-sur-Mer. He would get the money. And he would bring it to Thenardiér. What else could he do?

* * *

Ice water rushed over Javert's face. He sat bolt upright, for one frantic moment thinking he was back in the Seine. Then the water cleared from his eyesight and he found himself looking at the too-familiar sight of the tenement on Rue Monge. Thenardiér was standing next to him with an empty bucket.

"You passed out," he said, by way of explanation.

Javert nodded slowly. The pain was returning to his arm now that he was lucid enough to experience it. He resisted the temptation to look down at the damage; it would only make him sick, and he knew well enough what had happened anyway. His whole arm would be littered with burns of varying severities; Thenardiér wasn't apparently content with forcing one scream out of the police Inspector, and had been heavy-handed in his exercise of the branding iron.

Now though, he seemed satisfied, at least temporarily. Some time between Javert waking covered in water and the final administration of heat that had left him senseless, Thenardiér had returned the iron to the oven.

Javert tried surreptitiously to suck some of the water from his lips as his captor walked behind him, entering his office. Moments later he reappeared, Montparnasse trailing behind him. The two were deep in discussion.

"You think he took the bait, then?" Thenardiér asked sharply.

"Of course he did - you told me yourself you always thought he was hiding his money outside of Paris, and I heard him - he's headed for Montreuil-sur-Mer."

"Montreuil-sur-Mer..." the innkeeper repeated quietly. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"You used to own a tavern down that way, didn't you?"

Thenardiér started at that. It had been many, many years since The Waterloo Inn had been in operation.

"I did, didn't I?" He said it more to himself than to Montparnasse. "Except it was in Montfermeil, not Montreuil-sur-Mer. But the night Valjean came and stole that whore's brat, Cosette, he must have said where he was from. That'd be it then, he's got his fortune holed up in the town where he made it, if you can believe that."

"Well, we know he's on his way. Are Babet and Brujon back yet?" For as excited as Thenardiér seemed, Montparnasse appeared rather bored. He was running a finger along the edge of his knife-blade, an annoying vice, but one that could quickly turn deadly if someone dared criticize it.

"No," Thenardiér replied shortly. "They're late. As usual."

"If it's usual, why does it still bother you? Go on, then, make your plans; I'll hold the fort down here."

To this, Thenardiér agreed; from what Javert could gather, the innkeeper had some arrangements to go make with regard to Warehouse Seven. If Valjean actually showed with the money, he'd be walking into a trap. _Just like I did_, Javert cursed to himself. _They got me with Chassé, and they'll use me to get Jean. Damn._

Then he realized that Thenardiér was talking about him.

"Hook that one up to the wall again - I plan to have a conversation with him when I get back. Try to behave while I'm gone."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't leave you out of the fun." Montparnasse's tone was soothing, but something in the way he said it made the Inspector's skin crawl.

Thenardiér left through his office. Javert surmised that it had to contain another door to the outside, because as of yet he'd seen no one use the heavily barricaded front entrance. It was an interesting piece of information, but he didn't see a way to use it currently. Then he started slightly - Montparnasse had crept up behind him. The Inspector never heard him move - it was eerie. But when the murderer held his knife to Javert's throat, the Inspector had to laugh.

"Go on and kill me then - your master won't be happy, and God knows I'd love to see him thwarted."

"I'm not planning on killing you - yet," Montparnasse replied. "But Thenardiér wanted me to move you to the wall, and both of us know that you're stronger than I am. Still, of the two of us, I'm quicker, and I doubt you'll try to pull anything with a blade across your jugular." So saying, he popped open the cuffs holding Javert to the chair and propelled him towards the back wall.

As they passed the office door, Javert almost ran for it, but, perhaps guessing his intentions, Montparnasse pulled the blade a little tighter and Javert, who had not been walking especially fast in the first place, had to slow down considerably to avoid getting cut. If the knife had been anywhere else, he'd still have tried it, but neither Javert nor his captor were stupid - both knew that a cut across the throat like that would be unequivocally fatal.

Deftly, Montparnasse held the Inspector and his knife to the wall with one hand and chained him to it with the other. As he had yesterday, Javert had no choice but to stand in such a position.

Thankfully, Montparnasse took his leave not long thereafter, only pausing to say "Just so that you're clear, Thenardiér isn't my 'Master'. He's technically the boss, since he hired us, but_ I_ am the leader of the Patron-Minette, and they answer to me last."

Javert frowned thoughtfully. There was tension there, certainly, and if he could find a way to exploit it, there could still be a way out of this mess. The room was silent, but for the crackling of wood in the stove, and it was cold. Sharp rock shards dug into his shoulders, but Javert hardly noticed. Even the burns afflicting his arm diminished, so focused on his own thoughts was he.

In point of fact, Javert was concentrating with such intensity on potential escape scenarios that he inadvertently allowed some of his other Inspector's habits to play second fiddle to the mass computations he was devising. As such, he failed to notice Montparnasse's reentry into the room, and it was with a great deal of surprise that he looked up and perceived the dark eyes observing him. The boy saw the shock in his expression and smiled a very small smile to himself.

"Monsieur the Inspector, you intrigue me," he said, walking forward, a sultry demeanor following him like a second cloak. "What does a man like yourself do to end up friends with a man like Jean Valjean?"

"Haven't you learned yet that I don't reveal personal information to anyone?" Javert growled.

Montparnasse stopped just in front of the Inspector, the top of his head near Javert's nose, though they matched in height if one counted the top hat.

"Well, if you won't talk, I'll have to guess," the thug told him matter-of-factly.

"Guess away." Javert could afford a little humor; there wasn't, so far as he was concerned, a snowball's chance in Hell that Montparnasse would come close to guessing the nature of his relationship with Valjean.

"Hmm," Montparnasse hummed, taking a theatric stance that suggested serious consideration. "You were involved in gambling with some other officers and got in over your head - which is serious trouble, as tall as you are. You needed Valjean to bail you out and have been fast friends ever since."

"Hardly." Javert barely suppressed an eye roll. Even in his apparently laid-back mood, he doubted that Montparnasse would appreciate such a gesture.

"Of course not; you're far too well-behaved to get into trouble that way. Perchance, then, you were looking for that kid he screwed Thenardiér on - what was her name, Colette? - and ended up bonding over the girl instead."

Javert exaggerated a yawn.

"Still cold," he said. "Do you mind leaving me to take a nap?"

Montparnasse's eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh, I don't think I was that far off, Inspector. I think I'm getting closer, don't you?"

"Not especially." Javert knew he was goading him, and he knew that of all his captors, Montparnasse was the most dangerous, but he was past caring. At that point, any small victory he could get over any of them was worth the trouble, Thenardiér and Montparnasse most especially.

"You're lying," Montparnasse pronounced. "Watch." He laid his first two fingers on the Inspector's neck, checking his pulse.

"You see?" Javert tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "Heart rate is normal. I'm an honest man; I'd hardly lie about something so petty."

Montparnasse didn't remove his hand, instead letting his fingers trail down the other's chest. "'Something so petty', he says. And he claims himself an honest man at the same time," the boy muttered aloud. "Riddle me this, Inspector: why not simply play along with one of my little faux pas? Is it because you really are so very honest? Or is it because you thought me incapable of guessing the intimate nature of your friendship?"

Javert didn't answer, but he didn't have to - at Montparnasse's words, his heart skipped a beat, something the murderer could hardly fail to notice with his hand pressed to the Inspector's chest.

"So the latter of the two, then. I thought as much." The boy stepped closer and slid his other arm around Javert's shoulders. The police Inspector was suddenly extremely conscious of the rough wall behind him - he couldn't move at all, though he desperately wanted to.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Javert asked breathlessly.

"Tell me, Javert, is Jean Valjean as good a kisser as he looks?" Montparnasse asked by way of reply.

Then, before Javert had the chance to do anything but widen his eyes in horrified astonishment, Montparnasse pressed his mouth violently to the Inspector's, shoving him back against the wall. Javert flinched openly, but Montparnasse wound his fingers in the other's hair and kept him from pulling away.

"What's wrong, Gypsy boy?" he whispered, breath hot on the police Inspector's ear. "You're already filthy by blood - is this so much worse?"

"Don't say a word about my family," Javert hissed. "I lived my whole life to overcome their legacy, and I wouldn't touch you voluntarily if my life depended on it."

Montparnasse leaned fully on the Inspector, gripping his thigh tightly with his free hand. "That's an interesting choice of words, Monsieur," he informed him. "Has it occurred to you that I might choose to test the honesty of that claim as well?"

"If it were a choice between you and the death, I'd have to say the latter is a more attractive option by far," Javert sneered. "Now get off me or you'll regret it later."

"Empty threats," the boy said with a sigh. "I'd thought you were a little more creative than that, Inspector, not to mention pragmatic. Both of us know that you aren't leaving our care alive, so quit with the melodramatics. Although," he added, plying Javert's lower lip with another venomous kiss, "you _are_ more fun when you're furious."

If Javert had an answer to this, it was only to make himself suddenly limp and unresisting. Montparnasse, he decided, was getting far too much enjoyment out of his struggling. In truth, the younger man was an assassin by trade, but where he excelled was truly violent murder. Fear, he had decided, was the only emotion he found desirable. A knife in the dark wasn't the least bit exciting, but Montparnasse thought the way he had mutilated some of the prostitutes genuinely arousing. Thus, he did seem rather put out when he noticed the change in the Inspector's demeanor, though he continued to cling to the Inspector in a way that Javert found extremely distasteful.

"Just do it and be done with it, then," the Inspector said flatly. He was all the more determined now to find some way out, if for no other reason that the overwhelming desire to spite this arrogant bastard in return for humiliating him. Furthermore, Javert refused to let Montparnasse poison the relationship he had with the only person who had ever actually cared what happened to him.

_No matter what he does to me_, Javert thought fiercely, _he can't have that. It can't be stolen._

But once again, Montparnasse decided to surprise him.

"I don't think I will," he said slyly. "It wouldn't be fair to Thenardiér to break you while he's gone. He'd miss all the personal satisfaction, and then I'd never hear the end of it. Don't worry," he added in a whisper, pressing close to Javert a final time, "We'll finish this later."

And then, in a heartbeat, he was gone, and Javert was left alone in the dim room.

Montparnasse had left, but not for good, he knew. Sooner or later, the boy would be back to finish what he'd started. Javert gave an involuntary shudder, and realized that for the first time in forty years, it wasn't only sweat rolling down his high cheekbones.


	18. Chapter 18

As the driver had warned, it took the rest of the day and most of the next to reach Montreuil-sur-Mer. The sky was a dusky purple when finally the horse halted wearily at the edge of town. The road on either side was lined with a wooded patch that stretched each way for nearly a kilometer, inhabited by small deer and the occasional lone wolf.

They had ridden through the night to get here, and though Valjean was anxious to be on the way back to Paris, he knew that everyone, himself included, needed a night of sleep. Therefore, he booked rooms in a small inn for himself and the fiacre driver, getting the horse stabled at the same time. Then, after a quick bite to eat, Valjean excused himself and slipped out the back door.

He knew the area well, certainly better than its respectable citizens and, in many cases, better than its less-respectable ones. The rear of the inn abutted with the forest edge, divided only by a small well-worn yard where the Madame of the establishment did the washing of the bedclothes, among other things. A thin dirt track, hardly more than a line, that wound through the woods had its starting point here, and it was this that Valjean followed until it ended in a circular clearing for chopping firewood.

In his time as Monsieur the Mayor, he had got on very well with the innkeepers; when he was forced to flee, the good-natured folks had let him make use of the track, and treated him hospitably on each return visit.

Once the news got out that the Mayor was a former galley slave, his credibility was destroyed along with the memory of all the good he'd done the town; these were perhaps the only people left in Montreuil-sur-Mer who still believed in Valjean (or Madeleine, as he'd called himself at the time)'s good name.

Thus it was that Valjean knew exactly where to start off the wood-clearing path, following a track crafted in his own mind rather than in the soil. He wound through the thickets, occasionally brushing a tree trunk or bush when it served as a landmark. For perhaps a half an hour, he marched under the twilight canopy until at last he came to a halt next to a lightning-struck tree stump and moss-covered boulder.

Crouching, Valjean pulled a small trowel from his vest pocket and pushed aside several month's worth of leaf mould. He also scraped away several inches of dirt until his trowel struck against the lid of a metal box. This he pulled quickly from its hiding place in the ground. The sides were rusted and pitted with age, but he visited often enough to keep the hinges well-oiled, and the inside was dry and secure from small animals.

Flipping the cover open, Valjean counted quickly its contents. As he had feared, 600,000 francs was most of his savings; after Thenardiér's fund was removed, there was a mere 5,000 in remainder. This was not especially troubling, as both he and Javert were used to living frugally and would be able to subside on as much, but he had hoped to give Cosette some amount of dowry money.

_Ah well_, Valjean thought, _It cannot be helped._ He carefully withdrew an amount appropriate to the ransom demand, counting it a second time to ensure that there was indeed 600,000 francs, and stored the large banknotes in a leather pouch he'd brought for just such a purpose. This he tucked carefully back inside his vest, while the rest of the money he returned to its hiding place.

The sky had deepened to almost black when Valjean re-entered the inn. If anyone had noticed his absence, it went unremarked-upon. Most of the other patrons had already retired; the carriage driver was asleep in front of the hearth. Valjean graciously declined the Madame's offer of an evening drink, instead climbing the stairs to the upper floor. His room was sparse, but it was clean and the bed seemed comfortable enough.

Frowning slightly, he slid the pouch of francs under the mattress before laying down. Normally he wouldn't have worried at the prospect of being robbed; on the occasions where someone had tried to mug him, he'd just given the unfortunate soul his purse instead. However, 600,000 francs was no small sum of money, and if it were taken, he doubted he'd be able to recoup it in time to save Javert. Doing that would be problematic enough as it was, without adding monetary complications to the equation.

He would also have to implement some measures to ensure Thenardiér couldn't double cross him. For some time, Valjean lay pondering these, until at last he fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Even as Valjean was riding for Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert was rather tied up in the proceedings, though when Thenardiér made the pun aloud, the Inspector didn't bother gracing him with a sarcastic reply. He was growing rather tired of standing, having been in such a position for several hours, and the rough metal cuffs were chafing his wrists, but he further chose to forgo a comment regarding his discomfort, instead fixing Thenardiér with his best expression of immaculate boredom. Montparnasse was leaning in the corner next to the stove; Javert pointedly ignored him.

"Well, Inspector," Thenardiér said triumphantly, "the stage is set. Valjean will be hard-pressed to devise a rescue scheme we haven't accounted for. Are you familiar with the Warehouses?"

"It's not in my area of jurisdiction," Javert said calmly, by way of answer.

"Allow me then to describe it, shall I?" Thenardiér paused. "Envision it - great brick buildings, crowding the River Seine - some even overhang it, where the ground underneath has washed away. Inside, they are filled with old crates, most of them empty, and the ceilings are raftered with rotting logs. It's a tremendous operation, I assure you, and also, of course, full of convenient alcoves in which my associates may conceal themselves. Warehouse Seven is an extra piece of work - all the windows are bricked over, and there's only one door. What do you think?"

"I think..." Javert said slowly, "that you've been spending too much time with Montparnasse. You could've been casted at the opera for that speech."

Thenardiér smirked. "I always did have a way with words. Would you like to hear what happens next?"

Javert groaned inwardly. He'd seen this scene played out too many times - the criminal wishing to pull his victim even lower by describing in detail the supposedly inescapable fate in store for him. It was egotistical, but beyond that, it was downright foolish. Were a few minutes of another's discomfort worth the risk of divulging one's schemes? After all, the more information the victim has, the easier it becomes for him to find a way out. But Thenardiér should know this; he was not stupid. If he were, he'd never have gotten out of prison, for one thing. Was the situation really so hopeless that Thenardiér was convinced Javert couldn't get away?

Guessing well some of this internal dialogue, Thenardiér smiled insidiously. "Go ahead, then, craft a ploy to escape - God knows I'd love to see you try. We'll meet Valjean in the Warehouse. The Patron-Minette will secure the exit as soon as he walks in, and the four of us will subdue him. Oh sure -" Thenardiér laughed, "- he's plenty strong, but we have you, so we have leverage. I doubt very much he'll do a lot of resisting if there's a gun pressed to your head. Then we take the money, kill you both, and go on our merry way. Get out of that, if you can."

In actuality, the scheme itself was well thought-out. The one gaping flaw from Javert's point of view was that it counted on Jean Valjean's complete naiveté. Only a very innocent person would walk open-armed into a den of murderous thieves, and while Javert wouldn't put it past Valjean to do that in some cases, he was also aware that the ex-con knew enough of crime to suspect Thenardiér of trying to renegade on the negotiations. He could only hope that anything Valjean came up with the Patron-Minette didn't have the skill to counter.

"Throw him back in his cell," Thenardiér ordered. "We have to get ready for Valjean's visit."

Montparnasse at least remembered that the Inspector was human and therefore needed water every once and awhile. The bottle, likely left over from some other, more alcoholic, drink, was already half empty, for once he'd started drinking he realized how thirsty he actually was. The Patron-Minette would be henceforth engrossed in their vile "preparations", however, and it was not probable that they would remember later about food, or more water. Javert knew he'd have to ration what he'd been given. The hours ticked by - one gentleman reached Montreuil-sur-Mer, and the other slept fitfully, knowing he'd be called on sooner rather than later.

* * *

It was two-and-a-half days past since Jean Valjean had left Paris. He'd made good time - the fiacre driver had given no additional protestations about the length of the trip after he'd been so well paid, and he also studiously avoided prying into Valjean's private affairs - he'd carry any passenger, even the shadier ones, provided they weren't being chased by the police and could afford the fare.

So it was that Valjean found himself standing outside the gate of the house on Rue Plumet, carrying an astronomical sum of money inside his vest, and bidding farewell to the carriage. Thenardiér wanted the ransom today. It was only early afternoon, however, and Valjean needed to pick up a few supplies before he walked to Warehouse Seven.

Inside Number 55, Valjean first removed a small can of kerosene from a cabinet, setting it on the table. He never used the stuff - kerosene lamps were a pain to clean, for one thing - but Javert had brought just such a lamp when he'd moved in, and the kerosene came with it. Valjean also dug an old suitcase out from under his bed and filled it with the banknotes he'd picked up in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Finally, the man placed a packet of matches in his vest pocket. With the suitcase under one arm and the kerosene in the other, Valjean made for the warehousing district.

* * *

Earlier that same morning, Thenardiér was in earnest readying business on the Rue Monge. From inside his cell, Javert could hear the shouted orders as the Patron-Minette collected an assortment of weaponry and dumped it in a cart out front. It sounded as if they were finally using the front door; Javert assumed there wasn't enough room or inclination to drag the cart around to the back. All at once, things got very quiet, except for a murmured argument between Thenardiér and Montparnasse. Presumably, the cart was packed and ready to go, which meant...

Even as he thought it, he heard the front door slam and someone lock each of the six bolts. Clearly, they weren't taking any chances with him. Then the cell door opened, and Thenardiér smiled cruelly at the Inspector, the Patron-Minette standing behind him. Thenardiér had a bottle in his hand, which perhaps wasn't unusual, but he wasn't drinking from it, which was.

"What was it the little Revolutionaries liked to shout on the street corners? 'The time is now, the day is here'? Well, either way, it's true. Are you ready to see Valjean again, briefly?" he asked.

Brujon snickered and whispered something to Babet.

"Being dead will be an improvement if it means I won't have to look at you anymore," Javert countered.

Thenardiér gestured to the bottle. "Do you know what this is?"

"I'm assuming it's alcohol."

The innkeeper sighed. "You clearly have no experience in these matters. This is not _just_ alcohol - this is _pure_ alcohol. Even a school boy could tell you as much."

"I don't doubt it - at least one of the ones on the barricade was completely wasted."

Thenardiér tossed the bottle to Javert, who, in his surprise, caught it. "Drink up," Thenardiér told him.

The Inspector eyed the bottle, deeply suspicious. "Why?"

"Because," Thenardiér explained slowly, much as one might to a child, "if we hit you over the head again, Valjean might object to the damage. This will knock you out for a couple of hours so we can drive to the Warehouse without worrying about you trying to escape, and it won't leave a mark."

Javert set the bottle down pointedly. "No."

Brujon punched Babet on the shoulder. "Told you he'd refuse!" he cackled. "You owe me ten francs for that!"

Rubbing his temples with one hand, Thenardiér continued to address Javert, ignoring the scene behind him. "If you don't drink it, you know we'll have to force you to."

Javert simply tightened his lips and said nothing.

"Very well, as you like it." Thenardiér turned and snapped at Brujon. "You said he wouldn't drink it, so now you get to make him."

Brujon looked unnecessarily pleased at the prospect. Striding into the cell, he popped the cork off the bottle with one hand and grabbed Javert's chin with the other, forcing him to look up at the larger thug. The Inspector didn't have the strength anymore to try and knock him off, but he still wasn't going to make this any easier for Brujon than he had to. Brujon pulled hard on Javert's jaw, forcing it open a crack. That was enough to allow him to shove the bottle in and then clamp his mouth shut so that the Inspector's only choice was to swallow. Even this most basic urge he attempted to withstand, but his body betrayed him and he inadvertently took a hefty gulp of the fiery liquid. We have already established that Javert was not a drinker; the alcohol shocked his system, and after a few moments he fell forward, eyes crossed, in a dead faint.

"Lovely," Montparnasse muttered.

"Tie him up, boys, we have a ransom to collect," Thenardiér said delightedly.

Babet, being the best knot-tier of the four, bound Javert's hands behind his back and tied his legs together. Thenardiér also had him gagged, stuffing his mouth with a wad of fabric and drawing a fine rope across it, securing it behind his head. Babet tossed Javert's limp form in the back of the cart, and the motley crew drove to Warehouse Seven. By the time they had installed themselves on the premises, the sun was high in the sky and Valjean was walking towards the rendezvous point.

* * *

Valjean looked over the Warehouse dubiously. A number seven was painted above the rusted door in peeling white paint, and the whole place looked like it might collapse at any moment. He also didn't see any windows, which was unfortunate - a window made for a good escape route in the event of an emergency. Through a gap in the door frame, however, he could make out the glow of lamplight, so the place would not be totally dark.

The man smiled grimly to himself. This was it, then - Valjean had to make one last preparation, and then it would come down to who was better prepared - him or Thenardiér. Flipping open the suitcase, Valjean poured kerosene over the fabric interior, careful to both miss the banknotes and to make the thing well and truly flammable. Then with his left hand he picked up the open case so that the lid leaned back on his chest; with his right, he concealed one of the matches in his palm. Edging the door open, Valjean stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a forbidding click that seemed too loud in the silent room. The light was coming from a half dozen lamps swinging from the rafters. They cast strange, distorted shadows across the floor, and across the massive crates that stood in towering pyramids throughout the space.

Thenardiér stood alone in the middle of the room, with a human figure slumped next to him. Valjean's heart leaped in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm.

"Good afternoon, Thenardiér," he said, stepping forward.

"I'm glad to see you're being reasonable. You're even punctual! Why don't you step down here so we can discuss this more easily?"

Valjean just smiled regretfully. "I'm afraid I can't do that just yet, Monsieur. I have another important request to make first."

Thenardiér laughed in reply. "What exactly do you think to negotiate with? We have your friend held hostage - I doubt very much you can find a bargaining chip over that."

"Maybe that's true," Valjean conceded, "and maybe not. You can see I brought the money, but you can't see that this suitcase has been doused in kerosene." He struck his match against the side of a box so that it lit. "I suspect you want this money very much - you've certainly went to a great deal of work to get it - and I'm sure you'd hate to see it go up in smoke." The match went out. Valjean casually retrieved another from his pocket.

The innkeeper licked his lips. "If you do that, you can't pay the ransom fee. I'd be forced to kill you both."

"I'm not convinced you won't try that anyway."

To say Thenardiér was unnerved would be an understatement. He knew Valjean was unpredictable - he should have expected a stunt like this. But he hadn't. After a pause, he gave in, asking "What is it you want, then?"

"I don't believe you're here alone. How stupid do you take me for? The Patron-Minette had been working for you this whole time, so don't try pretending they aren't here. Let's have everybody out in the open, first."

Thenardiér looked as if he'd been made to eat raw lemons, but at last he called loudly "'Parnasse! Babet! Get out here, both of you!" Sullenly, both thugs stepped out of their hiding places in the darkness.

Valjean's eyes narrowed. "Wasn't there a third one of you?"

"Claquesous died in prison. Your friend here saw to that," Montparnasse told him, nudging Javert in the ribs with his boot. He conveniently forgot to mention that Brujon had joined the gang in the meantime. Javert, who was lying in a most uncomfortable position at Thenardiér's feet, had not forgotten this detail, but the linen shoved in his mouth prevented him from warning Valjean of the danger.

"The second thing -" Valjean began.

"What, there's more?!" Thenardiér cut him off.

"One thing only that I can think of. I'm not paying 600,000 francs for your Uncle Michel, so I'm going to walk down there. And I swear to you on all that I hold sacred - if that isn't Inspector Javert, I will set this on fire and you three won't see a sous."

"I guess that's fair..." Babet muttered uncertainly.

Valjean lit his match as a safety precaution - if they pulled guns on him, he could still burn the money before they had time to shoot. He walked carefully down the stone steps and across the first third of the room so that he was standing perhaps ten feet from Thenardiér and the Patron-Minette.

Montparnasse pulled Javert up so that he was sitting on his knees; this position he maintained unsteadily, as the liquor had only mostly worn off. Still, it was unmistakably Javert. Valjean dropped the match in delight. That was his first mistake. Javert was looking at him with the strangest expression - one more of horror and fear than happiness, or even just relief. Valjean was puzzled by this more than anything - shouldn't he be glad he was being rescued? He couldn't possibly care about the money...

Valjean addressed Thenardiér but kept his eyes on the Inspector, brow furrowed slightly. "Very good Monsieur. It would have been a shame to have to burn this, but given our past history, I hope you will excuse my caution. I will set this on the ground for you - if you would just release Javert, we can all leave and be home in time for dinner."

Thenardiér nodded to Babet, who drew a small surin from his waistcoat and cut the ropes binding Javert's legs. The Inspector half ran, half stumbled to where Valjean was standing, still wearing something of a bemused expression. Gently, he pulled the rope from Javert's mouth, and the cotton cloth as well, watching Thenardiér carefully as he did so. That was his second mistake.

As soon as Valjean had removed the gag, Javert, his voice husky from thirst but full of desperate urgency, whispered "Jean - you have to get out of here! Quickly!"

"Why?" Valjean asked in confusion. "What's going -"

At that moment, he felt a round barrel press itself to the back of his head.

"Ah," Valjean finished. "That's not very polite, you know."

Brujon, whom Thenardiér had not called down to the middle of the Warehouse, had crept from his hiding place to stand guard in front of the door, wondering what he should do. Many people might have thought the man incompetent; that wasn't true. He simply had a very methodical way of thinking things through before acting. Valjean's pyrotechnic display hadn't been part of Thenardiér's plan, but, he came to see, it amounted to the same thing. 'Parnasse and Babet were exposed, but his position hadn't been given away, so when Babet gave the signal and cut Javert's ropes, it was a simple enough proposition for him to follow the plan's original constraints and sneak up behind Valjean. Thenardiér's scheme had called for a knife; he'd substituted a gun as it seemed neater.

For a moment, everyone stared at everyone else. Then Thenardiér laughed, a high, cold laugh that made one's hair stand on end. "You thought you had us! You thought you had us, but I will not be beat by you a second time! I can't believe you thought we would really just let the two of you walk out of here, as if you weren't going to turn and have us arrested the second you left. No, neither of you are leaving here alive." Turning to Brujon, he added "Valjean first, then the Inspector. I want to watch the hope in his eyes die."

Brujon cocked the gun, but suddenly Thenardiér wasn't paying attention. He was watching Valjean instead, who was doing something most inexplicable. He was talking.

"Now gentlemen, really - you don't want to shoot us! We just want to go home." His voice was soothing, almost mesmerizing, and completely out of place in such a context.

"Shut up," Thenardiér ordered. "You should be scared out of your wits, not talking to us like children!"

Valjean looked at him piercingly, straight in the eyes. "And you should learn that old cons have more than one trick up their sleeve, Thenardiér."

In a motion of such speed that it ought to have been impossible for a man his age, Valjean ducked out from under Brujon's gun and lobbed a can across the room. It soared over Montparnasse's head and struck one of the gigantic crates, landing on top of another. Montparnasse smirked; if Valjean had meant to hit him, he'd overshot his target by several meters.

"Missed me," he mocked.

Then Valjean dropped a third blackened match to the floor. Thenardiér looked from it back to Valjean as comprehension spread over his features.

"Oh my God," he said quietly. "You've killed us all."

"Huh?" Babet turned quizzically to him, but just then, the can of kerosene exploded, turning the crate into a blazing fireball. The wood was dry, as were its contents, and the room was full of such boxes.

"Run!" Thenardiér shouted, abandoning all dignity and running madly for the exit. The fire was spreading faster even than Valjean had counted on - it was leaping up into the rafters, where whole resinous logs were holding up the building's weight.

The Patron-Minette followed Thenardiér at an equally crazed pace - Babet only paused to scoop up the suitcase of francs before it caught alight. Valjean wrapped an arm around Javert's shoulders.

"Let's go home, then," he smiled.

Javert returned the smile.


	19. Chapter 19

The fire was spreading at a breakneck pace. Valjean grabbed Javert by the arm, trying to undo the knots in the rope binding the Inspector's hands.

"Just leave it," Javert said, turning his head. "If we stand here much longer, we won't have a way out!"

"Thenardiér won't have gone far - you'll want your hands free. I'll be damned if I can get these knots to loosen, though."

For all Valjean's strength, physics were against him there. Though more easily cut, twisted rope requires more power to pull apart than metal; here it was taut against Javert's skin, an added complication, and Valjean didn't have even a pocket knife on him.

Javert cursed under his breath. "I swear I'll see all four of them -"

He never got to finish his sentence. At the back of the Warehouse, where the fire had started, the rafters gave and the ceiling fell in. Shaking his head in exasperation, Valjean beckoned Javert to follow him and ran for the exit. The door must have been scalding - Javert was sure he saw the hinges starting to glow - but if it was, Valjean gave no sign of it when he shoved it open with his shoulder.

After fleeing the burning building, Thenardiér had convinced Babet and Brujon to hold the only door shut tight, so as to imprison Valjean and Javert inside. Both thugs, however, had underestimated Valjean's physical capabilities - there was a reason he'd been known as Jean the Jack back in Toulon - and their combined weight was barely an obstacle. The door swung open, and Babet and Brujon were knocked to the side.

Babet didn't miss a beat, grabbing a wooden plank off a rubbish pile and cracking it hard over Valjean's head. Under other circumstances, his victim's expression would have been comical. As it was, the older man wrenched the board from Babet's grip and snapped it easily in two, throwing the pieces in the back of the Patron-Minette's cart.

"That," Javert said quietly to Babet, "was completely unnecessary."

Jean Valjean never figured out exactly how Javert got his hands free - he always assumed that the Inspector had used a shard of fallen brick to slice through the cords or something to that ilk - but before he had the chance to blink, Javert leaped at Babet, pinning him to the ground. Seeing his fellow ruffian in danger, Brujon lumbered into the fray, trying and failing to pull Javert off Babet. Instead, Brujon had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of one of Babet's punches, which missed Javert entirely and hit Brujon squarely in the nose. Bloodied and enraged, Brujon dove into the fist fight with a vengeance, hitting any bit of exposed flesh whether friend or foe.

Valjean was about to go pull the Inspector out himself when an empty whisky bottle cracked him in the shoulder and shattered. He turned to see Thenardiér standing with the remains of the bottle clutched in a trembling fist, breathing hard.

"I'm getting tired of people hitting me with things," Valjean said a bit too evenly. "Especially with garbage - it's somewhat demeaning."

"Where is it?" Thenardiér hissed, swinging the shards of glass in a wild blow that Valjean easily sidestepped.

"Where's what?" the other man asked, nonplussed.

"The suitcase." Thenardiér's lips were pulled back in a snarl; he was practically frothing at the mouth.

Valjean knocked the bottle fragments from Thenardiér's hand with a heavy swat. The innkeeper stumbled backward, trying to shake the jarring numbness from his arm. Scanning the courtyard between Warehouse Six and Seven, from the street to the railing overlooking the river, Valjean searched for the suitcase. It was nowhere to be found.

"Brujon dragged it out of the Warehouse," Thenardiér muttered feverishly. "Where did he put it?" He glanced up at the building, now belching smoke and flames skyward.

Valjean looked again - something else was missing. Then it clicked.

"Where did Montparnasse go? Not another one of your tricks, is it?"

Thenardiér's jaw dropped and he spun around, looking.

"The bastard betrayed me - I knew he would! - he's taken the money and run, I should never have..." the man looked more rat-like than ever, curling up slightly on himself and spitting blacker and blacker bits of commentary as he traced his inner dialogue. Valjean almost felt bad for him.

Then the innkeeper said a bit more clearly "Still, Montparnasse did leave me you." Thenardiér looked up, a wild glint in his eyes. He lunged.

Valjean ducked under the first blow but was hit by the second in the stomach. He winced slightly, but it didn't have the debilitating effect Thenardiér had hoped for. Realizing this, he twisted out of Valjean's reach and withdrew a rapier from under a cloth in the cart.

Armed now, he charged at Valjean, only jerking to a stop when his opponent showed no sign of backing down.

"I have a sword. You don't," Thenardiér spat. "Aren't you going to run?"

Valjean smiled thinly. "Even at my age, I can outrun you. That wouldn't be fair, especially since you were so bent on getting even with me."

Swearing, Thenardiér struck out with the rapier, cutting a hole in Valjean's vest.

"Mmm. I'll have to have Cosette mend that," he mused.

"Don't just stand there!" the innkeeper practically begged. "Defend yourself or something!"

"Am I ruining your fun?"

Thenardiér lunged forward again, swinging the blade at Valjean's shoulder. The man saw it coming and jumped to the side so that Thenardiér stumbled past him, caught in his own momentum. Now slightly behind the sewer rat, Valjean grabbed Thenardiér's sword arm and twisted the weapon out of his grip. Panting slightly, Valjean threw Thenardiér to the ground and stood above him, sword raised.

But even as Thenardiér cowered in terror, sure Valjean meant to end his life, a shot rang out across the courtyard. Valjean turned in the direction of the noise; it had come from behind him, near the railing. Montparnasse was leaning nonchalantly against the rail, pressing Inspector Javert to him. With one hand, he was holding a pistol in the air, and with the second was pushing another pistol against the Inspector's head.

* * *

In order to make sense of the events that follow, it is necessary to first describe the manner in which Javert first found himself drawn into a fight with the members of the Patron-Minette. Valjean had done a better job of loosening Javert's bonds than either had originally realized, such that upon exiting Warehouse Seven, the sagging rope caught itself on the jagged corner of the crumbling wall. Guessing his luck, the Inspector employed both the skill and patience of a police spy to efficiently tear through the stretched cords holding his hands until he was able to slip his wrists out of their confines. At the same instant, Babet smashed Valjean's head with the old board.

Javert was an Inspector of great rank and high esteem but also of ferocious morals; therefore, his treatment the last few days had been especially difficult for him, as every action of Thenardiér and company against his person seemed like an injury not only to himself but also to God and his mistress, the Law. The unfortunate Babet made the mistake of adding insult to this injury by assaulting Jean Valjean, of whom Javert could not have been more possessive or protective.

Blood pounded in his ears; the Inspector scarcely noticed Valjean rip the board from the thug's grasp and snap it. Instead, he could only picture the numerous tortures that this band of lowlife terrors had heaped upon him and on his loved one.

Thus, upon saying "That was completely unnecessary" to Babet, the Inspector growled it with a passionate vehemence that was rather sharper than was required for the small matter of assault with a wooden plank. Instead, it referenced the entire month-long episodic nightmare that had unfolded around the Patron-Minette's ill-fated money making scheme. One almost cannot blame Babet for taking an uncertain step backwards when faced with such cold fury.

Then the Inspector pounced, knocking Babet off balance before he had time to reach for another weapon. The pair hit the ground hard, but Javert was disappointed - rather than cracking his skull against the cobblestone as his opponent had intended, Babet merely fell against a pile of rubble. He was sore, certainly, and bleeding from a cut along his temple, but the thug was regrettably still conscious.

Brujon likewise joined in, pulling up on the back of Javert's collar. The Inspector was not as easily beat as all that, however, and now that he had hold of one of his captors, he wasn't keen on letting go. Therefore, Brujon found himself also lifting Babet, as Javert was stubbornly gripping a handful of the man's vest. Such an action choked both men, but the Inspector dealt with it better than Babet who lost all sense of orientation and fiercely squashed Brujon's nose rather than Javert's. There was a crunching noise - the thug's nose was surely broken - and Brujon released his hold on the Inspector, sending both him and Babet to the ground again.

This time, Babet's head connected with the ground and he fell still. Not so Brujon, who struck out mightily at Javert and landed a glancing blow on the Inspector's ribcage. The force of the hit knocked the breath from Javert's chest. He had just enough time to register that Valjean was engaged with Thenardiér before a roaring Brujon occupied all his concentration.

At one time, Javert would have bested the criminal easily, but that was before he'd been starved, drugged, and beaten within an inch of his life. Adrenaline was keeping him going, he knew, but he was also aware that the burst of energy would not last forever. He had to arm himself, and quickly. He knew the cart was full of dangerous odds and ends - that was the whole reason for which Thenardiér had brought it. Brujon was also cognizant of this and was determined to let Javert nowhere near the cart using whatever means necessary.

Babet's eyes flickered open. Perceiving his danger, lying as he was at the feet of two individuals intent on their dangerous duel, the dazed ruffian aimed a kick at the back of Javert's leg. The Inspector's appendage crumpled underneath him, but in spite of his initial surprise, Javert was able to use the inconvenience as a way to duck under Brujon's flailing bear-like arms and leap for the cart. Clambering to relative safety inside the vehicle, Javert quickly searched for a weapon. By this time, Thenardiér had claimed the sword, but Javert found a metal pipe that seemed more than sufficient for his purposes.

Jumping down to face his opponents, Javert held the pipe in a ready stance. Babet (who had since pulled himself to his feet) and Brujon backed away warily. The three circled each other, neither party sure which was on offense and which was on defense. Several feinting blows later, the scene looked much the same but in reverse - Babet and Brujon stood poised in front of the cart, while Javert had his back to the rest of the courtyard.

Something caught Brujon's attention; his eyes bugged out at the sight of whatever it was in the yard's corner. The Inspector almost turned to look but caught himself just in time - he'd not fall for the oldest trick in the playbook. It would seem that Javert had chosen wisely - apparently aware that his method of distraction had failed, Brujon charged and began raining heavy blows on his adversary. Babet quickly followed his lead, running to keep up.

Utterly battered, Javert was forced backwards. Both thugs quickly had knuckles turned white and bloodless from impact on the metal pipe, but for as many blows as the Inspector blocked, he missed one. By the time the Patron-Minette had pushed Javert back ten feet, the police Inspector's sides were heaving with exhaustion and nasty bruises were beginning to spread across his pale flesh. Moreover, the gash on his arm from several days prior reopened; he could see the dark stain spreading across his jacket sleeve.

With a decisive punch at his chest that Javert didn't have the strength to intercept, Brujon sent the Inspector flying, cracking his head on the stone parapet. His sight faded even as white stars erupted at the edges of his peripheral vision.

A hand pulled him upright - was Brujon going to throw him over the edge into the river? It seemed the sort of thing. He barely had the energy to protest. Then his head cleared. It was not Brujon staring back at him, nor was it Babet.

"Let go of me," Javert hissed, his feeble efforts at protest suddenly far more pronounced.

"Not a chance," Montparnasse laughed quietly in his ear. "Stand still or I'll make this more uncomfortable for you."

The Patron-Minette's leader carefully set the barrel of a pistol behind Javert's ear. Holding a second pistol aloft, he fired. Valjean spun to face them in shock.

* * *

"Montparnasse - what are you doing here?" Valjean demanded.

"Good evening to you, too," Montparnasse replied coolly. "I'm merely here to inform my employer that the money is hidden where we discussed."

"What?!" Thenardiér's half-strangled yell echoed in the courtyard. "I told you to wait for my orders before moving it! You are undermining my authority!"

"Correct." The murderer's tone was conversational. "I am. And I'll tell you why - I've done all the dirty work for this entire operation, risking getting caught by the police for starters, while you sat in your office taking all the credit. This whole plan was my idea in the first place. So I rather think we're going to do this fairly - a three-way split of the money instead of the measly 20% assistance fee you promised us."

"Three-way?!" Thenardiér was incoherent with rage, but also, Valjean realized, with fear. "Babet, Brujon, we had a deal! Come on, you two work for me, even if that one's shown its true colors!"

"They work for you, yes." Even as Thenardiér got more worked up, Montparnasse got more dangerously quiet. "But they're loyal to me, aren't you, boys?"

"Brujon! Babet! Here! Now!" Thenardiér was shouting himself hoarse. The two thugs looked from Montparnasse to Thenardiér and stayed where they were - next to the parapet. The innkeeper looked totally crushed.

"Adieu, Monsieur Thenardiér," Montparnasse said with a smile. The gun he had fired into the air he now aimed at his former employer. Valjean shouted something unintelligible but it was too late - Montparnasse pulled the trigger and a heartbeat later Thenardiér fell to the ground, silenced. The murderer dropped the gun, now empty of ammunition.

As though nothing of consequence had happened, Montparnasse ordered Brujon and Babet to stand guard by the street. The smoke would come to the city's attention; it was only a matter of time. Valjean prayed quietly that the police would come to investigate soon, before anything else could happen.

The possibility of attracting police attention also seemed to cross Montparnasse's mind, for he was now more animated, beckoning Valjean closer. Knowing that he was already within firing range, Valjean heeded the boy's request and closed the gap between them.

When Valjean stood about five feet from him, Montparnasse held up his hand.

"That's far enough," he said. "We can talk here without raising our voices."

"What else could you possibly want, Montparnasse?" Valjean's voice was soft, entreating, even. "You have more money now than almost anyone else in Paris. Just let us leave. You'll have plenty of a head start by the time the police find out you were here; you could leave the country if you wished."

Montparnasse's pretty mouth curved into a smile that somehow conveyed loathing rather than warmth. He pulled Javert more solidly in front of him so that he could almost snuggle up to the Inspector while holding a gun to his head. Javert's eyes darted from Valjean to the road and back again, an obvious signal to run. Valjean, however, had no intentions of giving up.

He looked Montparnasse squarely in the eye and asked "What do I have to do to get you to let Inspector Javert go?"

Montparnasse considered the question. "Hard to say. Although another kiss _might_ do it."

Valjean blanched slightly at the use of "another" but quickly regained his composure. "That's really not for me to decide. You'll have to ask the Inspector himself."

Montparnasse smiled sardonically at Javert; though the Inspector couldn't see the expression, he anticipated it and winced.

"I'd rather kiss the bullet, thanks."

"As you wish."

The murderer climbed nimbly onto the railing, never once taking his eyes off Javert or letting the pistol slide from its spot against his head. Then he grabbed the Inspector's collar and hauled him up onto the rail next to him. Behind them, the drop to the Seine was some twenty feet.

Valjean watched the scene unfold with a mounting sense of horror. For the second time, Javert was standing on a bridge with nothing between him and death. Getting shot in the head was, however, far more difficult to prevent than drowning. He felt frozen, unable to do anything for fear of provoking Montparnasse further, but wanting desperately to knock the pistol out of his hands.

"You have two options," Montparnasse informed Javert pleasantly. "I can shoot you first, which gives your boyfriend time to start running, or I can shoot him first, which gives you a chance to try to escape."

"Those are terrible options," Javert said, playing for time. He wished Valjean would just get out of here - there was no sense in both of them being dead. Of course, Javert didn't have any great desire to be dead himself - Valjean had cured him of that - but he refused point-blank to let Valjean get hurt. If that meant the Inspector's end, then so be it.

"Oh believe me, Inspector, I could do much worse if I wanted to," Montparnasse whispered in Javert's ear. Unseen by Valjean, his hand drifted to Javert's side. Javert flinched away from his touch. This seemed to amuse Montparnasse, who chuckled softly.

Javert gave Valjean another pleading look, begging him to run. Then, so quickly his motion seemed like a blur, the Inspector swung his left leg out and around behind him. As he'd intended, he hit Montparnasse in the vulnerable area behind the knees, where Babet had kicked Javert earlier. Falling backwards, Montparnasse cried out, unable to regain his balance on the ledge. He fired the pistol and Javert staggered forward, falling into Valjean's arms. Then the boy slipped off the railing entirely, dropping with a heavy splash into the Seine.


	20. Chapter 20

Valjean held Javert to him tightly, even as they knelt on the ground.

"He hit you! Where -?"

Javert grimaced and pulled Valjean's hand to his shoulder. Valjean's fingers trembled and came away stained with blood.

"It's nothing. I'll live, and it's not the worst they did to me, either." Javert pulled a wry face and forced himself to stand, though his shoulder screamed in protest.

"That doesn't exactly make me feel better," a reproving Valjean told him. "We're going to have a very serious talk about the extent of your injuries."

"Later," Javert said, looking out over the river. "Where did that bastard get off to?"

Valjean laid a gentle hand on Javert's head and directed his gaze downward.

The Warehouses, as we have mentioned, grip the edge of the high bank of the Seine, only interrupted by small courtyards such as this where Valjean and Javert stood. If one were to fall over the edge of the precautionary railing, as a certain murderous young man had just done, one would find the falling easy - no sharp rocks at the bottom, no tree roots sticking out of the bank, or the like.

But if one then wanted to get out of the water, one would have found that a far more difficult prospect. The banks of the Seine there were more like cliffs - perfectly vertical, and of considerable height. Therefore, one either would have had to swim some way to a more escapable part of the river or would have had to wait to be rescued by boat.

The Inspector looked down to where Valjean indicated. Twenty feet directly below them, an especially sorry-looking figure was clinging desperately to the sheer face of the river bank, only barely keeping his head and shoulders above water.

"I can't swim," he sputtered, slipping back under for a fraction of a second. "Please, help!" There was a definite tinge of panic in his voice.

Valjean shrugged off his outer vest.

"What are you doing?" asked a curious Javert.

"He's going to drown if we wait much longer."

"I don't see a problem with that." Javert watched coolly as his would-be killer tried in vain to pull himself out.

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't." The Inspector's voice was suddenly very serious. "You might not either, if you knew what he put me through."

Valjean growled slightly. His desires hadn't been so at odds with his morals in a long time.

"You can do whatever you want to him once I'm not looking - shoot him yourself, if you have to - but I can't, I just _can't_, stand here and watch him die."

Valjean had already swung one leg over the railing when Javert laid a hand on his arm.

"Wait."

"What did I just say?" Valjean exclaimed indignantly. "I won't -"

"And I'm not asking you to. Look."

Javert pointed and Valjean saw a uniformed team valiantly rowing a boat upriver towards them.

"I knew they'd notice the fire sooner or later. That's one of Beaupré's water divisions. Ever since that couple drowned a few months ago, they always get sent out when there's a river-front fire. That way, anyone to jump to safety in the Seine gets picked up."

Beginning to understand, Valjean climbed back onto the right side of the rail.

"Ouellette!" Javert shouted to the man at the boat's head. "Make sure to grab that one, and whatever you do, don't let him get away!"

"Javert?!" Even at this distance, Valjean could see the look of astonishment on Ouellette's face. "Everyone thought you were dead or run off with a pretty lady!"

"As for the latter - not if you paid me. As for the former, I'm reasonably sure that I've just left Hell, so I'll not promise I'm alive yet."

"Same old Javert," Ouelette chuckled. "I can't wait to read your report."

Having had enough of pleasantries, Javert turned to survey the scene behind him with some amusement. Babet and Brujon had loyally guarded the entrance to the courtyard only to be utterly overwhelmed by the two squadrons of officers that had appeared, one from each side of the street. Their leader dragged soaking out of the river and into custody and their own weapons useless against the muskets of the police, the last of the Patron-Minette knew they were beat and surrendered peacefully.

"Javert!"

The Inspector swore to himself, and Valjean hid his smile under pretense of a yawn. He knew how much Javert hated attention, and after disappearing for a week, he'd be seeing more than he cared for.

"It's still 'Inspector' to you, Beaupré," Javert told him icily.

"Sorry, Monsieur l'Inspector," Beaupré grinned cheekily. "I'm just glad to see you - are you bleeding?" He'd caught sight of the dark patch that was still growing through Javert's coat.

"A bullet wound - nothing I haven't dealt with before."

Beaupré shouted to one of his officers, who in turn went looking for a medic.

"Sit, please," Beaupré pulled a grumbling Inspector to a toppled wine cask and made him sit.

"Don't coddle me, Beaupré." Javert's tone was more tired now than angry. "You should know - Commissaire Chassé is dead. I'll make my report tonight of course, but in the meantime -"

"I understand; I'll take care of it."

When the doctor arrived, he had Javert shrug off his greatcoat and bare his shoulders. Javert did so, unbuttoning the top of his shirt and letting it slide down over his arms. The Inspector looked uncharacteristically shy and rather uncomfortable to be in any state of undress around his subordinates, for there were still plenty of other officers milling about.

Sensing some of his discomfort, Beaupré prattled on about how the city had been looking for an excuse to tear the whole Warehouse district down, and how the mayor would likely as not want to give Javert a medal for burning one of the buildings almost to the ground. The chatter was annoying, but it served its purpose; Javert was too busy trying to shut Beaupré up to notice the doctor tightening the bandages around his shoulder or the murmurs of gossip sweeping through the ranks as the rest of the police tried to guess where Javert had been.

Beaupré was thorough, certainly, and saw to it that Javert got appropriate medical treatment for all of his injuries, not just the most recent. He had the Inspector (who had rebuttoned his shirt as soon as the doctor was done with the bandage) next roll up his sleeves; as each cut, bruise, and laceration was revealed, Valjean, watching closely, felt his emotions deepen from horror into a nameless despair, terrified for his too-brave lover and no longer sure that he wanted to know the details behind Javert's incarceration.

Javert caught sight of Valjean's expression and hastily prevented the doctor from removing any more of the Inspector's shirt - the mere act of rolling his sleeves up caused Valjean pain, and the lashing he'd received under Babet's tender care did not need immediate attention. Valjean could wait until later to see that.

"If you're quite finished, Monsieur..."

The doctor said he was done but prescribed immediate bed rest and then a hearty meal. Valjean assured the doctor that he would see both done and practically dragged the Inspector to the street. Now that he was back among his own, Javert was attempting to plunge once more into his role as Inspector, ordering around the officers they passed like nobody's business.

Valjean was having none of it, however. He'd had the same officer who'd brought the doctor call a fiacre into which he bundled a rather indignant Inspector.

"I have to show them that I'm still capable of executing my job," he protested.

"Anyone," Valjean began patiently, "who thinks you incapable of being a police Inspector clearly doesn't know you in the slightest. On the other hand, some of us know that you _will_ be incapable of police work if you don't give yourself time to heal first."

Valjean climbed into the carriage next to Javert and pulled him close, mindful of the other's injuries. The brief ride to the Rue Plumet was spent in companionable silence. Everything necessary had been said, and everything important was communicated without speech.

When the fiacre stopped outside Number 55, Valjean stepped out to open the gate, Javert following with an expression that dared anyone to try to help him. Once both were carefully ensconced inside the house, however, Javert pulled Valjean into a tight embrace and buried his face in the older man's hair.

"I missed you, Jean. God above, I missed you."

Valjean practically purred with pleasure and wrapped his own arms around the Inspector's waist, pleased not to have been the one to initiate intimacies for a change.

"I never stopped thinking about you, you know," Valjean said quietly. "Not once."

Javert murmured something unintelligible and tightened his arms around Valjean's neck.

"I was so worried," Valjean continued. "I could only imagine what had happened - I thought you were dead until I got your letter - and then after that I couldn't stop picturing what they might do to you." Valjean's voice shook as he reached the end of his sentence and pressed himself to Javert's chest, reassuring himself that he was not, in fact, dreaming.

"I -" Javert faltered. "I have a confession to make. I thought - Thenardiér had made it sound like, but that's no excuse - you were in on it. That - that you had helped set me up. And it was for several hours, and I'm not asking your forgiveness, but -"

Valjean laid a finger on Javert's lips, effectively quieting him.

"There's nothing to forgive, love. Torment and darkness twist the mind - I should know that better than anyone."

Valjean moved to kiss the Inspector on the cheek, but Javert cupped his face with his palm and drew him into a proper kiss, deepened by a week of fear and sweetened by the rapture of being in one another's arms again. Valjean was the first to pull away reluctantly.

"Come on, the doctor said bed rest."

"Come to bed with me, then."

Valjean stared at Javert in astonishment. Then the two promptly burst into gales of laughter.

"Well, if Monsieur insists..." Valjean grabbed Javert by the hand, pulling him upstairs. Javert shut the bedroom door behind him, and, minutes later, both tumbled into bed, each wearing considerably less clothing than moments before.

Valjean was very adamant about Javert actually resting that afternoon, but they curled up together, taking comfort in the other's warmth. Javert actually fell asleep a couple of times, but his rest was fitful, punctuated by nightmares. These Valjean tried to assuage, pulling him closer and whispering softly of happy memories. Night was upon them when Javert stretched himself awake.

"I told Beaupré I'd be in to make my report tonight. I'd best be on my way."

"If you think I'm going to let you out of my sight so soon -"

"Look," Javert interrupted. "Thenardiér's dead and the other three are behind bars. There's nothing to worry about. But if it makes you feel better, I'll take a fiacre to the police depot."

Valjean squeezed Javert's hand in reply. Swinging himself out of bed, the Inspector made himself presentable and exited. Watching him leave, Valjean sighed. He decided he'd best write a letter to Cosette and Marius explaining some of what had transpired. Perhaps he'd invite them over to lunch...

* * *

Cosette tied off the end of the embroidery floss, breaking it neatly. When she finished her work, the blanket would read "JJP" - Jean or Jeanette Javert Pontmercy. Marius, standing behind her, leaned his chin on her shoulder and slipped his arms under hers. Gently, he cradled her stomach as if to gain some sense of the life growing there.

He'd had a fright that morning when Cosette had announced that she felt ill, but the doctor had reassured the young couple, saying that nausea was a common symptom during the first few months of pregnancy.

"Silly," Cosette teased, easing herself out of her husband's grasp. "I'm not all that far along yet. You can't even see the bump, let alone feel the baby moving."

"I don't care," he told her, kissing her cheek lightly. "I just like holding the two of you. Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?"

"Hmm..." Cosette hummed aloud. It was the hundredth such discussion they'd had in the last few days. "I think a little boy, with hair just like yours."

"You said a girl this morning."

"I know."

* * *

Water dripped slowly in the corner, falling into a fetid pool. The air was frigid and permeated by the stink of rot and disease. Paris' jailhouse was not meant to be comfortable; it was a stopping point on the road to prison for those already condemned, and served to acclimate the inmates to some of prison's less savory conditions.

Javert had worked his way down here after giving his report upstairs and retrieving the ransom fund from Montparnasse's hiding place (one of the officers had beat its location out of the thug with swift efficiency). Beaupré, the new Commissaire, had given the visit his approval. With a nod to the man standing guard at the door, Javert stepped into the hallway dividing the cells - those bound for the court on the left, and those bound for prison on the right.

The left cells were mostly occupied. By contrast, the cells on the right were empty but for three - Javert first passed Babet, who scowled and threw a pebble at the Inspector; Javert ignored him. Brujon was sitting facing the wall several cells down. Javert, wisely, had instructed the guards to spread the Patron-Minette out so they couldn't plot with each other. The criminals had escaped prison before - no reason to make it easy for them to give it a second go.

The last cell on the block was rather different from the others. All the walls were stone, rather than bars, and the door was crafted of hefty oak boards, reinforced with metal bolts and edged with iron. The solitary confinement cell also had two guards posted on either side of the door. These stood for eight-hour shifts before being replaced by their fellows.

When the guards realized who it was standing in front of them, they tripped over each other in their haste to step aside.

"Monsieur the Inspector," one of them breathed, "we weren't told to expect you."

"I assumed as much," Javert replied dryly, pulling a key from his pocket. "Has this one been any trouble?"

"No Monsieur, no trouble at all," the other guard answered, trying to look good in front of the esteemed Inspector.

Javert ignored this completely, inserting the key in the lock. Before he turned it, he eyed the guards severely. "Keep an eye on him," he warned. "He's as slippery as an eel and less pleasant than one."

"Don't worry, Monsieur, we'll keep both eyes on him," the guard said.

Javert paused and smiled very slightly. The guard took another step backwards in alarm.

"No, one eye will suffice. Keep the other one looking behind you. Otherwise, he'll have a knife in your back before you have time to blink."

Having thus terrified the young guards, Javert pushed the cell door open and stepped inside. It swung shut behind him with a heavy thud.

If the rest of the jailhouse was unwholesome, the solitary confinement cell was downright unpleasant. The bit of light in the room came from a street lamp outside, which shone dimly from a small, barred window. The place stank of human filth.

Wrapped in chains, his clothes still saturated with river water, Montparnasse shivered in a miserable puddle in the corner. When he looked up and saw the Inspector, his face split in a half-crazed grin.

"Miss me, Inspector?" he asked. When Javert said nothing, the murderer chuckled darkly. "As I recall, the positions were reversed the last time we were in this situation."

"So they were." Javert spoke calmly but his fingers tightened slightly into a fist.

This was not lost on Montparnasse, who chuckled again. "Come to get your revenge, then, Javert? I know you want to. Go on then. Hit me. Kick me. You're stronger than I am, and I'm chained up. Press me to the wall and take advantage of me like I God-damn well know you want -"

Like lightning, Javert pulled his pistol from its place at his side and took aim.

"Give me one good reason not to shoot you."

"'Cause you think I'm cute."

Montparnasse's mocking face turned ashen as Javert's only response was to cock the gun.

"Because your superiors won't be happy."

Javert stepped forward and pressed the gun to the man's temple.

"My superiors approved this little visit. Our new Commissaire won't be displeased if I shoot the man responsible for our late Commissaire's death."

Montparnasse closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"Because... Valjean wouldn't want you to kill me."

Javert snorted.

"You don't know that. You're just grasping at straws because you don't want to die. However," he added in a whisper. "You're right. He was going to jump into the river after you, if you can believe that." Deliberately, Javert stood, returning the pistol to its place. He turned to go, only slowing to call over his shoulder. "Have fun in Toulon. If anyone deserves that place, you do."

Once he was back on the street, Javert exhaled slowly. He wasn't sure when he'd started holding his breath, but he had. The night sky was black, the breeze pleasantly cool, and the stars twinkled in their ordered multitudes. On the horizon, the faintest haze of light heralded Dawn, still a few hours off, but coming.

Javert thought of Valjean and was in turn reminded of that age-old once spoken truth: that to love another is to see the face of God.

He smiled - yes, tomorrow would come indeed.

With that, he set out for home.


End file.
